


Give You Pins and (Knitting) Needles

by Soupernabturel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ASMR, ASMRtist Castiel, Alternate Universe - Human, Aromantic Dean, Autonomous sensory meridian response, Awkward Dean Winchester, But Not Dean or Cas, Chubby Dean Winchester, Craft Store Owner Castiel, Dean Riding Solo, Death from Old Age, Doctor Kink, Doctor Roleplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gentle Dom Castiel, Homeless Castiel, Homelessness, Knitting, M/M, Masturbation, Meet-Cute, Nurse Dean, Queer platonic relationships, Roleplay, Teasing, YouTuber Castiel, emotions and having to be honest about them, qpr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6551296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soupernabturel/pseuds/Soupernabturel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been watching Castiel's videos for years, he just never expected to meet the ASMRtist in person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **As always Unbeated, Unedited, Unread**
> 
>  
> 
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> soupernabturel.tumblr.com

To say that Dean has had a shitty day, coming back from a twelve hour shift at Cherry Park Retirement Home is the understatement of the century. It is a part of the job, having residents pass-on, but _fuck_ \- Dean really hadn’t seen this one coming.

Dean is not new to Cherry Park, he’d been working at the home going on seven years now, ever since he finished nursing school, and usually, with the exception of these moments, it’s the best job he has ever had. Which he supposes makes only these moments that much worse.

The retirement home is small, one of the smallest in Lebanon, with only a little more than a dozen suites. The residents have all been there for awhile now, most for longer than Dean has been knocking around and they are all friends, hell, they are all _family_. And the staff are kind of in on that, (as unprofessional as it is), and hell losing Frank today, (the crotchety, paranoid, old curmudgeon) has really tilted the Home on its side.

Entering his dark apartment, Dean unclips his I.D card from his chest pocket and instantly breaks for his room. There's left over lasagna he’d made yesterday, the day before(?) in the fridge but at the moment, after the ambulances and the paperwork and the deafening silence of the residents as Frank was wheeled out from his room it is enough to put Dean’s stomach off.  
  
  
He’d liked Frank, he really had. A prickly son’va’bitch but he was a hell of a poker shark and endless, endless in his stories, the good kind, he was always great company during a day shift, a breath of fresh air.

Dean is going to miss him.  
  
  
Dean heads right for his room not missing a beat. The shower can wait till morning, food can wait. Dean knows what he needs and what he needs, so he heads right for his bedroom, shucked off his clothes as soon as he enters, falling onto his bed and crawling within it, not even bothering to turn on the light when he grabs his laptop down from beside his bed, and pulls the device up and onto his lap. 

The day honestly brightens when he opens up YouTube to find a notification:  _CasNovak uploaded a new video:_ _“RELAXATION AND COMFORT: Soft Conversation/Whispers-_ _Realistic Binaural Sounds_ _: ASMR”._

A piece of Dean’s chest untwists. A new video. It has been a little while since CasNovak's uploaded, and Dean has missed seeing some new content from his favourite ASMRtist. Not that the rest of Cas’ hundred or so videos haven’t served him well. 

It's just Dean has seen each one of them about enough to almost mouth them out now, besides he likes to see how Cas is doing, likes to see that the other man is doing well.

Dean fit his headphones snugly over his ears, reclines back in his bed, under the blankets, and settles back to watch the newest, twenty-minute video.

Cas’ gummy smiling face appears on the screen, he is so close to the camera that barely his whole face can be shown at once. _“Hello.”_ _  
_

  
Dean shivers.  
  
As if (impossibly) sensing this, the Cas on screen smiles.

_  
"I apologise to you all for my recent lack of activity, I’ve been undergoing the arduous task of moving house and have only now become fully settled.”_

Cas’ smile widens on screen as he runs a hand through his dark mused hair. The high sensitivity of his microphone catches the sound, amplifying it through Dean’s headphones. Dean almost groans aloud in relief from it, already he can feel the tingles gathering at the back of his head, dripping down.  
  
Dean finds himself smiling when he opens his eyes again to see Cas looking right into the camera (right at Dean). He speaks in hushed soft whispers, despite the natural gravel rough tone of his voice.  
  
_“I hope this video finds you in a calm and happy place, and if not, lets work on getting you to that place together.”_

His lips are chapped and pink and smiling. Without meaning to Dean looks down to his bare chest, little bit of pudge, un-showered. If he wasn’t in his home alone, staring at a computer screen watching a man completely unaware of Dean’s existence try to make him feel good with 100 miles between them, he might have felt embarrassed.

There may have been a time, back in nursing school when Dean had first discovered ASMR, discovered Cas; when he may have felt self conscious. But now, especially given a particularly liberating conversation with his nosey-ass little brother ( _It’s not porn Sammy, it’s ASMR, it’s not even about sex-)_ Dean is more than ever comfortable with the weird, one sided intimacy he’s developed with a man who posts videos.  

A man who’s never going to see or meet him so if Dean’s added a little stress weight recently and looking a little grubby with three-day stubble than Cas (what an angel) is never going to know about it.

 _“Sometimes things happen to us during the day and they stick with us… like fuzz on a sweater.”_ Dean can feel himself falling into the familiar headspace brought on by Cas’ whispers, but pseudo-intimacy. Cas’ voice moves from ear to ear, giving the illusion that he is right there when he speaks, every parting of his lips, every breath audible. _“They stay with us, the fuzz, all these little pieces, keep getting suck on our sweaters, and by the time we look at our selves in the mirror, we have a sweater that’s covered in reminders of how worn we may feel. How old-”_

It is just overly pleasant for Dean, listening to Cas’ quiet, soothing voice. It puts him to sleep more than anything, relaxes him. Dean leans more heavily back against his pillows. He tips his head back, letting himself get lost. After a minute, his eyes drop closed.

 _“_ _So it’s important to brush ourselves down or…”_ Cas chuckles quietly, a deliciously _warm_ sound in Dean’s left ear. Then his right. _“Have someone, like me to do it for you.”_

Tingles ran across Dean’s skin and down his spine, filling him with a happy, warm and floaty feeling. His mind kind of goes fuzzy and for a second, the world drops away, leaving only the illusion of Cas’ fingers gently scratching through Dean’s hair, dancing over his ears, his jaw. The sound of Cas’ voice a gentle hum.

 _“You place a special trust in me with these videos, and I don’t take that lightly.”_ Cas continues speaking, he drums his fingers on the table a moment, then gently brushes them against the microphone, the sound makes Dean sink deeper, tug his lower lip between his teeth.

As Dean’s muscles and chest slowly unclench, and his breathing begins to even out, he can hear Castiel address _him_ , edging even closer to the camera so his soft barely discernible hum is right in Dean’s ear, every outward breath Dean can almost feel the heat of.

  
_“I am here for you, understand?”_

There is something about the way Castiel speaks, not just how he speaks but what he says that mesmerises Dean, reminds him of happier days with his mother laughing gently in the kitchen, a sober, not yet alcoholic father. Maybe it is how Castiel moved his hands as he spoke, caresses the camera even with his gaze and his fingertips when he does one of his more immersive role-play’s. Maybe it is how his mouth quirks up on one side over certain words, but there just seems to be so much _feeling_ in what he is saying, what he is saying _to Dean_ , that Dean had been hooked from his first video.

_  
“I care for you…You can let go of your pain, of how your day went…You try so hard, I appreciate you for it.”_

That and Cas’ deep blue eyes, messy hair and general sexiness certainly haven't deter Dean’s guilty pleasure from the ASMRtist.

_“I am proud of you.”_

Soon, always soon with Cas, Dean is on the edge of sleep. He can feel them, just faintly, Cas’ words washing over him, like a massage undoing all the knots in his body, filling him up with a pleasant numbing tingle.  
  
_“You are good. Strong. Kind-”_

Dean dreams of it clearly, _so clearly;_  chapped pink lips brushing against his forehead, a gentle whisper: _“_ You are so good, Dean” lulling him to sleep.

 

**oOo**

 

Dean sees Mildred and Betty over by the fireplace, each knitting what seems to be different elements of the same project.  
  
"How are my favourite girls?" Dean asks coming to sit by the two of them.

Betty sets down her needles and smiles at him. "Dean. How are you sweetie?"

"You know, keep on keeping on," Dean smiles at her. “A lot better now that I’ve got your company.”  
  
Betty shushes him and laughs a sweet open sound. Mildred on the opposite side rolls her eyes, continues with her work in an innately crotchety manner. “When are you going to get a real girl, boy?” she asks him.  
  
Dean’s ear go a little pink. Damn Mildred, she can take as good as she got.  
  
“Mildred, no, you remember,” Betty leans across her chair and whispers rather  loudly, “he’s a _homosexual_.”

Which, firstly, no.  
  
Mildred sniffs, eyes focused on her knitting. “Flirting with a pair of old bats. Not homosexual behaviour to me.”  
  
“Only for you Milly.” Dean smiles at her, gives her a wink. It makes Betty giggle and Mildred grumble. He isn;t about to go into detail about how bisexuality and homosexuality differ (and that wasn’t even brushing the surface with Dean) with two eighty-year-old women, they may feel like a family, but that doesn't mean the staff spill all about their personal lives to the residents, or visa versa really. Besides, the label of being the Home’s ‘gay-nurse’ keeps ladies like Betty and Mildred from throwing their granddaughters (and in some cases daughters) at him. 

Sometimes you have to make personal sacrifices, to make it in the tough, tough world of elderly care.   
  
Betty reaches over to him with a full body creak, and pats his knee. “Doris Kingsley has a son you know Honey. Lovely lad, confirmed bachelor and all, maybe he could-”

“Oh, sit on it Bethany.” Mildred scolds, she casts Dean a look over her knitting that is as close to friendly camaraderie that she's ever going to give him. “I’m sure Dean can find his own dates. Ones not twenty years his senior-”

"Twenty? You flatter me.” Dean jokes with her. It is enough to draw out the slightest of quirks to the corner of her mouth. She’d taken Frank’s passing harder than most, Dean knows. He wishes there was more that he could do. 

But there wasn’t. Shit happened in life. Cas is right, Dean needs to brush himself off, today is a new day- a fuzz free sweater day. 

"Anyway," he says, planting hands on his knees to help himself up from the plush chair. God, he could sink into that soft death-trap for an eternity. "I better go make my rounds. You ladies holler if you need anything."

Betty beams and says she will, as Mildred grunts and focuses in on her knitting.

Dean makes his way around the home, he checks in with each of the residents. Gladys and Edward sit quietly in her room together, hand in hand watching the soaps. Edward clutches at Dean’s arm when he comes in to see them, whispers: 'save me’ in a way Dean knows is joking, at least, _half_ -joking. Still, he tells the two of them morning-tea is going to be served soon (to which Gladys murmurs ‘that’s nice’), and winks at Edward on his way out of the door.  
  
Alfred, Missouri and Bernie are all gathered out in the hallway as Dean passes, sipping tea from mugs looking out side at the garden through the wall sized window opposite. It is a little too brisk of a morning for a journey outdoors, but Dean assures the three of them that he’ll get Benny to open up the outside as soon as the temperature brightens up a little.  
  
Just before he leaves, Missouri mentions to him in an off-hand way, how nice she finds the other male nurse, Benny. Alfred and Bernie scoff amongst themselves, and Dean smiles politely, and mentally tells the woman (who he's convinced is a psychic, seriously) to knock it off trying to set him up.

Dean is perfectly happy the way he is.

  
oOo

 

Dean spends the remainder of his shift helping out behind the desks, assisting Pam with the paperwork, cleaning the rooms, checking on the residents, emailing Sam back as he’d forgotten to Wednesday. At around four Jo rocks up for her shift, so Dean packs up his gear, says goodbye to the residents on his way down the hallway, feeling a lot lighter than the last few days before.

New day, new fuzz-free sweater.

Checking his phone as he walks by the front desk, Dean is stopped by a gentle hand on his arm.

“Winchester,” says Mildred as Dean turned to her.

“Couldn’t bare to see me leave hey?” Dean asks, smiling friendly.

“I hoped-” Mildred cuts off as her voice wobbles. Behind thick rimmed glasses, her eyes shine. “I was making a scarf for Frank, before he died. And I’d hope to finish it off before-”

Dean winces as the older woman turns her head sharply away from him, and draws in a haggard breath. After a second, she composes herself, tightens her grip on her walking frame. 

“I need more wool.” She tells him. Like a drill sergeant _tells_ a private to hustle. “And our outing isn’t until Friday and I need…”

“I can get it for you.” Dean says, he can't bare to see her stumbling and trying to find the words. Her heartbreak evident in every line of her. “There's this new craft store I've been passing on my way home. If you want I can-”

“I need dark grey and a salt and pepper mix.” Mildred interrupts, but at least she isn't crumpling right in front of him any longer. She thrusts some papers into Dean’s hand, a sample thread, and casts him a stern eye. “I need the right one now boy, don’t go dicking around and bring me back the wrong thread- I won’t be paying you for it!”

Who have they all been kidding, Mildred and Frank had been perfect for each other.  
  
Dean nod, resists the urge to reach out and pat the older woman’s hand. “Sure Mildred, course. I won't let you down.”

"No you won't," she tells him again, this time it's almost a compliment. “You can bring them in with you tomorrow.” She affirms with a stiff upper lip returning, but there is an edge of gratitude there, laid bare beneath weathered features.

“Yes M’am.” Dean smiles to her.  
  
“Good.” She says to him, already shuffling back down the hall.

 

**oOo**

 

 _Heavenly Crafts_  is a little side store, just a ten-minute detour from Dean’s neighbor-hood. It looks like a nice store, with sky-blue paint amongst a row of cream and grey- its paint job alone is the reason he’d known of its convenient existence, that and that the store looked _genuinely friendly,_ and, for a craft store a wide selection (when you spent most of your time in the company of the elderly, you were bound to pick up an appreciation for a well catalogued and displayed craft store).

The bell above the door gives a quiet chime as Dean enters. He glances up at the sound, smiles, and immediately makes his way to the far wall on which a kaleidoscope of coloured thread have been pigeonholed into little boxes.

The selection is huge, that within itself is a massive understatement. Dean guarantees that, if he even so much as nudged the wall with his belly or his hip the whole thing would come falling down upon him, burying him in balls and balls of wool. (“Buried in Balls” Sammy would have laughed at that comparison).

A little intimidated by the variety, Dean fiddles with his jacket pocket, searching for Mildred’s thread and swatches.

_“Hello. Can I help you?”_

 

T-That voice-

 

Out of his peripheral vision, Dean can see a guy walking towards him, the guy who'd spoken. Now, Dean _had_ been fully focused on his epic grand quest for wool before being addressed, but when he heard the mans voice he stopped mid-thought, looked over and— 

“Uh,” says Dean eloquently. “Uhh, mmm. Eep!”

Cas Novak smiles a smile that is all pink gums and white teeth. His chuckle sends a heated swoop through Dean’s abdomen and familiar tingles down his spine. 

“Intimidating isn’t it?” Cas says with a nod to the great wall of wool in front of them.

Dean stares.

“That’s a lot of,” he swallows. Once. Twice. Again. _Fuck_. “Sheep..?”

Cas’ smile only widened, his laugh deepening. “Indeed.”

Dean stares.

Fuck, he’s never noticed before how Cas puts his tongue behind his teeth when he beams like that. So close to how he is on camera. There is no way of describing how fucken eye-catching Cas is in person; the camera he uses for his videos haven't done him justice in the fucking _slightest_.

Of course Dean is then reminded that he is still dressed in his unflattering pale cyan scrubs, with only a leather beaten jacket thrown over his shoulders for warmth. There isn't really going to be any forgiveness in the loose pants department if he pops a boner staring at this man’s perfect fucking face attached to a perfect fucking body that looks incredibly endearing all bee-sweatered up and poufy.

Dean tries to focus on the coloured thread in front of his face or really _anything_ else, but Cas is almost 6 feet of pure nerdy-sex and what is Dean supposed to do with that? He is just a worked-to-death, chubby, aro as fuck nurse with a thing for girls who can pull his hair, slap his face and guys who can tear him apart and then afterward cuddle up to him in bed and speak to him softly. 

 

_~You are so good, Dean.~_

 

Goddamned Mildred and her fucking scarf. Goddamn Frank fucking him over from beyond the grave. The old bastard.

“So…can I help you at all?” Cas asks him, his quiet, naturally commanding tone cutting through Dean’s bullshit like a warm knife through butter. “You seem a little, overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed. That is one way to put it.

Dean’s body feels like it just got twenty degrees hotter than it already was in his leather jacket. He is so screwed. 

God, Cas’ voice is like a growl wrapped in a tornado.

“Yeah I umm-” Dean begins pitifully, before then shoving Mildred’s papers into Cas’ chest, practically bowling the other man over. “ _Oof_!”

Cas has to step back to catch himself.

Dean bursts into a flutter of apologies. “Shit. Sorry!” he grabs at Cas’ arm, wipes him down as though he’d actually sent the man to the ground, and sets about putting him to rights before he determines just how goddamned creepy he is coming across throwing himself all over this stranger. Dean jerks back into his own space instantly and takes three massive steps back, palms held up. “Sorry-I-sorry.”  
  
“It’s fine. Really.” Cas assures with a kind of wary now, smile.

Dean doesn't say anything. Can't. In fact, he's frozen still. Sort of. A shiver runs through him from head to toe. God- Cas is right here, speaking to him, looking at him.

Well not looking at him right now, rather, he is looking down at the sample thread and papers Dean had given – _thrown-_ at him. Looking back up to the wall, Cas makes a thoughtful humming sound (Dean’s legs shake, growing weak), taps at the edge of the paper in his hand (Dean is  _dying_ ), before he makes a small noise of ‘ah-ha’ and clamours nimbly up onto the shelf of wool, standing on the bottom one so that –even given his similar height to Dean- he can reach to the top of the wall drawing down a ball of grey wool.

Dean’s eyes fall to Cas' shapely ass when he finds and procures the salt and pepper thread.

“So, for yourself or-”

  
Dean shoots his gaze back up to Cas’ face, ears tipped red for no reason, he luckily hadn’t been caught. Cas is looking down at the papers again.

“An old lady.” Dean says.  
  
Cas looks up from the wool in his hands and raises an eyebrow.  
  
“I mean- not _just_ an old lady,” Dean quickly backtracks realising how far he’s gonna fall if he keeps going down that particular path. “I work at Cherry Parks, up on the hill.” He jerks a thumb in the general direction, then shifts that hand up into his hair, soothing himself with the touch of his own fingers (having so often pretended they were Cas’ own). God, it feels so good with Cas there watching. Hell, Dean may actually be able to reach climax without his dick being touched at all. That or he’d fall asleep to the sounds of Cas’ voice washing over him. Both he has done more times than he can count.

“I’m’a nurse.” Dean explains it all coming out in one garbled breath. He shoves his hand into his pocket.

_Stop touching yourself in front of Cas goddamnit!_

Definitely not the right time to trigger himself a boner.

A perceptible softness takes over Cas’ features. His lips part, and his eyes trail over Dean, his scrubs, seeming to take him in with a new light. “A nurse.” Cas murmurs, impressed. “That must be a very rewarding career.”

The heat in Dean’s cheeks deepen. He shrugs, casts his gaze to Cas' shoes. “It has its moments.”

“As does anything.”

 _Can I suck your dick?_ Dean bites his lower lip. He wonders if that is… fuck… _romantic_ or something- Cas seems like the type to be into that shit. What Dean knows of him from his videos (admittedly not much) and now seeing him in person wearing a- definitely homemade-bee sweater in public, Cas just _screams_  the type of guy who likes all that kissing and hand holding and stuff. Fuck.

Dean is barely aware of them moving over to the counter until Cas tills up the wool, nimble fingers working over the registers keys as he speaks.

“Will this be all?”

Dean blinks heavily. “Huh?”

“Only two balls?”

It takes Dean a far longer time than he is proud of to register just exactly to which _balls_ Cas is referring.  
  
Shit, he hadn’t asked Mildred how much she wanted, and the old bat hadn’t written that information down by the looks of it. “Umm, maybe-”  
  
“You can always come back…” Castiel ventures, he looks at Dean with _fuck-_ very blue eyes, “If you need more.”

Dean barely holds back a whimper.

Cas- saint, pure angel that he is, just smiles while Dean tries to recover himself and not look as though he is halfway between coming and having an aneurism. “Good Idea.” He chokes out, slapping one hand on the table to gather up the (now utterly precious cos _Cas Novak_ touched it) cargo. “Smart thinking Cas.”

_Cas._

Dean's eyes shoot down, hoping to see that the other man is wearing a name tag...

No nametag. Just a cute little cat pin clipped onto the collar of his shirt. 

 _Shit_.

Cas frowns, a perceptible pin-point between his brows, before that smoothes out also, like the rest of his face. He smiles a server’s smile- his blue eyes more… simply more aware now.

“Have a lovely day, sir.” He tells Dean. His voice is lowered, lowered so much that if Dean hadn’t been unconsciously leaning over the partition bench he might not have properly heard him. But Dean had been and he is and Cas just _whispers_  his goodbye like that, it is enough to have Dean’s eyes falling shut and a groan rolling up from the base of him coming out as a mere breath between his lips. Shaky. Fucking pavlovian at this point.

He either gets the best sleep of his life or the best orgasm of his life listening to that voice.

Cas leans one elbow on the bench between them. Blue eyes fixed on Dean. Still smiling, but no longer a servers smile.  
  
That's a CasNovak smile.

Fuck.

Dean needs to get out of there.

  
He jerks back, pulls the balls of wool to his chest and clamours out of the store backwards, unable to tear his eyes away just yet. A chorus of _rube rude rude_ echoing in his head. “You-you-” he bumps a magazine stack on his way out, swears, jerks to right the stack that isn't all that badly disturbed, then turns back to Cas- face burning. “Yep.”

With a smile and a wave, Cas bids him goodbye.

 With a shaky smile and no wave Dean practically runs for his car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular demand I am adding to this fic, as you can see from the update you can expect at least two more chapters after this (if interest keeps up aha) I hope you enjoy, check out the new tags and let me know what you think! 
> 
> **As always unbeated, unedited, unread**

Dean finds all of Hall B out in the rec room, huddled on couches, sitting in their wheelchairs, all of them cooing like a pack of pigeons over the scarce few homemaker magazines and pattern swatches that the Cherry Park Retirement home provides its residents. 

Mildred’s in front of the whole lot of them, wielding her dual knitting needles like a conductor’s baton.   
  
Albert perhaps, is the only attendee not exactly, _attending_. He’s dozing in a chair off in the corner, but he does have a series of woollen swatches laid out over his lap as though he’s about to start knitting.

A literal knitting circle has formed in the middle of the rec room and Dean’s not quite sure what to make of it.

“I told you all, if you were ever going to throw a party,” he says loudly, clearly—he’s dealing with a bunch of seniors here, please—as he enters the room, clipboard tucked under one arm, his lunch, a sandwich, not a good one, wrapped in cling wrap, tucked under the other. “That you had to invite me.”

“You’re always welcome, to all our parties, dear.” Betty says and pats his hand as he passes.  
  
Dean tosses her a smile then falls into a seat by Edward who’s helping Gladys turn the pages on the magazine on her lap.

“If you’re going to sit you’re going to knit boy.” Mildred says, rushing him as much as an eighty-year-old with a walking frame can. She drops her pair of knitting needles into his lap, huffs, then shuffles quickly back to the front,

Dean gestures around at the small group, most having lifted their attention to say hello to him, have now been absorbed back down into their samples and magazines. “What’s this?”

“Interesting stuff.” Edward says, vaguely waving one hand. His wrist makes a terrible cracking noise. His hearing aid whistles. “Never knew there were so many styles.”

“There is a lot of shorthand.” Gladys comments demurely.

Dean peers across at the booklet, it all looks just like gibberish to him. “Of?”  
  
“Knitting dear.” Betty informs from across the way.

Next to her, Missouri, one of their younger resident’s, comparatively speaking, nods to the needles in Dean’s lap. “Have you ever?”

“No,” Dean answers. He looks to Mildred for answers. She’s now turned her walker around and is sitting on its little seat part. She’s attentive, expert with yet another pair of needles (Dean wonders if he needs to keep an eye on those) and the same goddamn ball of yarn he got her from Cas’ store last week, and starts knitting. Withered fingers moving more deftly than Dean would have ever expected them too. ‘Not, uh, really my thing.’

Mildred’s already woven a few feet into something recognisable. A salt and pepper scarf, exactly the same style and pattern as many of the others Frank used to wear.

“Quite the following you’ve got here Milly.” Dean grins. “Do I need start investigating cultish behaviour? Put down some restraining orders?”

Missouri and Betty have a little giggle at that, even Edward and Gladys take small amused breaths. Dean’s off-brand of near, almost, okayish humour is appreciated here and he’s pretty sure that’s half the reason he took this job in the first place.

Alright, maybe thirty percent of the reason.

Mildred however makes a sound with her mouth that is almost a raspberry, she doesn’t look up from her work, in fact, she’s acting like Dean and those around her barely exist at all.

_Click click click click_

“Homeless.” Gladys says, then nods sagely.  
  
Dean turns to look at her “wh-pardon?”

“We’re knitting, for the homeless.” Missouri explains.

“Oh,” Dean says and then it hits him. Frank, god, he’d been homeless for a long while before coming here, it happened to more of the elderly than you’d think. People growing old alone, with no family to help or care for them, and an inept government and healthcare system when, later in life, things took a turn for the worst.

Dean feels his chest swell and his eyes fill a little. “Milly.”

Mildred looks up, an aging fire in her eyes. She points a needle at him threateningly. “Not a word Winchester.”

“I—”

“Zip it.”

 Dean, Betty, Missouri and Edward all exchange glances.

 “Booties.” Gladys says and holds up her knitting. It is in fact what looks like the beginnings of an impressive pair of knitted baby socks. “For a baby.”

 Dean smiles at her then comes to Mildred’s side.

 “Whatever you say or don’t say Milly, I think it’s great.”

Mildred simply grunts, fingers moving deftly despite how withered they are, and that sometimes her arthritis gets so bad, Dean or one of the other nurses has to rub her own moisturiser into her skin.

“You can help us with distribution.” She tells him.

“Of course.” Dean agrees softly.

Mildred looks up at him for a long, silent moment.

It’s acceptance, it’s a thank you, Dean squeezes her shoulder as he turns and heads out to the kitchen. Knitting’s bound to make you hungry, maybe Donna’s got some sliced fruit laying around.   


  

**oOo**

 

Dean knows he’s an idiot because he hasn’t been sleeping.

Not deeply, not well at least. He clocks off, gets home, maybe skypes with Sam, or chats with Charlie or Benny. On the rare, rare occasion he goes out for a drink, or out with friends but for the most part after work (which he does love, he does, but it is very much sort’ve now his whole life) he gets home and wants to cook some grub, and _sleep._

Now that he’s stopped watching Cas’ ASMR videos however, sleep has all of a sudden become a whole lot more elusive.

And it’s starting to effect Dean’s day to day. 

“Shit,” Dean breathes, patting down the pockets of his jacket, and then his scrubs, and then emptying out his bag on the couch where he’d thrown it coming in. Nothing, shit. He pats himself down again.

“Shit, wallet. Wallet, wallet, wallet, where are—shit.”

Dean gives up and throws his jacket on the ouch. He digs out his phone.

 

Dean to Pam <16:05>— _Hey Pam, left my wallet at work, can you make sure it’s in my locker, locked and I’ll pick it up tomorrow before clock in?_ —

Pam to Dean <16:07>— _Sure honey ;)—_ she sends back and Dean relaxes incrementally.

<16:08>— _Thanks—_

<16:09> _—Get some rest Winchester ;)_ —

 

Dean groans into his own couch pillows and on his way to the shower he finally has to admit, maybe it’s time he checked out Cas’ uploads, just so he could get a few hours rest.

Coming back from Heavenly Crafts Dean has felt too weird, seeing Cas in real life, hearing Cas in _person,_ to really watch any of his videos, more recent and past (he knows Cas has been uploading because he has at least three notifications on his account telling him so).

Hence the lack of sleep.

It isn’t as though Dean hasn’t tried other ASMRtists. There’s just no others out there quite like Cas, no other’s that really do the trick. Their videos aren’t engaging, they make too many mouth sounds when they whisper or are too breathy. He’s scanned through the whole list of YouTube’s ASMRtist pool and has nit-picked and been rubbed the wrong way by pretty much every other account. Their words are too wet, voices too high, tone too insincere, roleplays downright cringy or they’re to breathy, not breathy enough to the point where they’re literally suffocating while trying not to breathe on the mike and so they gasp and wheeze about halfway through their videos.

None of these people are Cas, none of these people have the same weirdly arousing and simultaneously relaxing effect on Dean.

He doesn’t get tingles for anyone else. Just Cas.

But now, Cas isn’t just some guy on the internet that makes Dean feel good, he’s a person, a real person, probably with flaws, probably with a boyfriend, girlfriend or partner already. Of course, cos he’s hot as fuck. A weird mix of alluring and adorkable that makes Dean feel tingles in a not entirely safe for work way.

And he seems like a cool guy, seems like a nice dude, not that Dean would know, as he’s been abstaining from not only Cas’ video’s but Cas’ entire store.

But enough is enough Dean is dying from exhaustion enough that he’s leaving his damn wallet at work.

He has to get some _release_.

Dean showers off his work day and emerges from the dense steam in his fluffiest, comfiest old robe. He pads across his carpeted apartment, and sets about making some grub, too tired tonight to make anything that substantial, but he does have the gear to make some pizza scrolls, so he does that and his stomach thanks him.

God, Dean could eat ten of these.

He eats fourteen.

Warm, clean, full, Dean pads gently over his plush carpet, taking a few more snacks in with him into his room. He admits wholeheartedly that he’s a pretty soft guy and not just around the middle, but he loves softness _around_ him, in the things he keeps close, in the company he keeps.

He loves to chill out in his room, feeling his memory foam mattress beneath him and listen to podcasts, his favourite songs, watch something easy on Netflix. He likes to sit and listen to things and zone out a little, daydreaming, sorta, but with no real driving force behind it.

His quiet time isn’t really quiet in the normal way, when he isn’t chilling out in his room he’s puttering around, contentedly cleaning this, watching that. Cooking yes, and baking, god yes. There’s a different feel to the relaxation Dean gets with doing menial chores in his own time.

But none of that really helps him sleep, not like ASMR does, so he plops, heavy onto his bed, robe falling open around the hilled swell of his stomach, and balances his MacBook on said stomach.

It sits well.

Dean has YouTube bookmarked, has Cas’ channel as the only real content on his home page. He clicks in and sees that Cas’ uploaded a new video just yesterday; _DOCTOR ROLEPLAY – CHECK UP:  Softly spoken, light praise, face touching, Counting, Whispered/Soft conversation ASMR._

Blood lifts to Dean’s face. He squirms…doctors are…doctor roleplay is…

Well, let’s just say it wasn’t the stigma, long hours and unequal pay that made baby Dean wanna grow up to be a nurse.

It was mostly his favourite sitcom; Doctor Sexy MD.

Scrubs and cowboy boots did something to him.

Cas isn’t wearing cowboy boots when the video starts, but he is wearing a white doctors coat, making his skin, eyes, and messy brown hair stand a little more starkly against the green screen backdrop he’s got going on. An office, a little blurred, only Cas and his now clipboard is in focus. There’s a black stethoscope around his neck.

Cas is making a soft clucking, clicking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, as though it’s some sort of tick he does when he’s thinking.

He turns to the camera as though just hearing someone come into the room. _‘Hello.’_

That exact tone, that exact rumbling volume has pearls of delight rippling over Dean’s skin and singing in his nerves. Only the lightest tingling sensation, he’s been listening to ASMR for so long, but undeniably, completely still pleasant, in a way Dean doesn’t know if he could accurately explain to others in words.

It’s just something you’ve gotta experience.

Dean smirks a little at that, toes off his socks with his feet and gets more comfortable. The laptop wobbles a bit on his belly, but stays put as Dean settles.

_'Welcome to the ASMR clinic. I’m doctor Novak, I’ll be preforming a simple series of check-ups, just to see how things are, to see how you are going.’_ His fingers tap gently on the clipboard in his hand, a steady, grounding pace that settles beneath Dean’s skin.

' _As you know, regular check-ups are very important for your personal health, if this your first time at the ASMR clinic?_ ’ He leaves a small pause between each of his questions, as though getting in answer in real time. Dean watches, transfixed as a gummy smile blooms over Cas’ face.

_‘Oh a veteran, I see.’_ He laughs. Dean snorts a little with him. The look Cas throws through the camera then if friggen downright sultry. _‘Well, I’m sure that will be reflected in your results.’_

Dean beams dumbly at the screen.

_‘We seem to have most of your details already on file here, ah,’_ Cas says, pen now tapping his clipboard. _Tap tap tap._ He picks up what is probably an empty file and scans through it. _‘Are you still having problems sleeping?'_

“Yes.” Dean answers.

_‘That’s good.’_ Cas replies, and Dean takes this entirely too seriously to laugh at the disconnect.

Okay, he only laughs a little.

_‘I’m glad, I, and my associates could help you with that.’_ Cas says with genuine pride and sincerity. It leaks out of every frame. He turns from the camera, sets his clipboard down. 

_'I’m going to listen to your lungs first, I think.’_ He raises his stethoscope and the sight of that thing has Dean’s stomach flipping a little. Pavlovian response. Cas moves in close to the camera, right up in Dean’s metaphorical face, his words are a slow, lulling rumble. _‘I will need you to take several deep, slow breathes for me.’_

It’s the ‘for me’ that does it. Dean sucks in a breath. Quits it, tries again, keeping in the spirit of Cas roleplay and not the fluttering warmth that’s growing under his skin.

_‘Breathe in.’_ Cas commands. Dean obeys.

_‘And out.’_

Cas putters around the screen a bit, pretending to be listening in the stethoscope, making small delicious clicks with his tongue, considerate, low hmms and ahhs. _‘Keep going, So, in—’_

The tightness in Dean’s chest loosens with his next breath. He faintly aware of his own fingers tracing small patterns on his stomach, on his thigh.

_‘And out…’_ then, ‘ _in. Hold._ ’

Dean holds his breath, head feeling a little light and airy, he feels like yawning.

_‘Out. Very good, thank you. Breathe normally.’_   Cas’ eyes look crystal bright with all the lights and the camera-ing he’s got going on. Looks fucken angelic. _‘That wasn’t too long to hold was it?.’_

Dean squirms against his sheets, a little giddiness bubbling up.

_‘You are, an excellent listener.’_ Cas continues, setting the stethoscope aside. _‘Your rhythm seems to be good, no pain, no difficulty?’_ Dean answers negatively and Cas acts as though he heard him. _‘Good. Good.’_

_‘Have there been any changes you’ve noticed, in your vision in your…’_ Cas leans in close and whispers slowly, drawing out every vowel _. ‘olfactory. Senses. Since your last example?’_

Cas ducks out of screen for just a second. He hears it before he sees is and his toes curl.

Cas pops back up, one latex glove on his hand. He’s slow and methodical putting on the other glove, making sure to flutter, and squelch and squeeze his fingers, to get every rubbery sound out of those things he can. He even snaps them at the wrist and Dean jumps and then laughs.

Cas smiles too, and it feels a little like he’s there. 

_‘I’m going to touch you now, inspect your eyes, your face, your’_ he leans in close again, his smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle, _‘ears.’_ Dean’s fingers, tracing soft, feather light little circles on his thigh skitter at that. He adjusts to lie on top of them. Keep those bad boys still.

‘ _I will be gentle.’_ Cas says.

Dean gives up the whole still fingers at that and allows himself the chance to trace whorls on his thighs, lightly skate over the soft curve of his own stomach. He lifts up his top and the sensation is just _this_ side of ticklish. Feels _good._

_‘I find bright lights to look into to be a little abrasive especially at night,’_ he hears Cas say. He must have missed something, all the whispers blending in together, it’s not uncommon for Dean to zone out for one reason or another (sleep of jerking off mostly) when listening these things, Cas just has that effect on him. Makes everything all _floaty._

_‘So today.’_ Cas says, and the sound that happens when he flutters his fingers is nice, not the nicest, Dean’s glad it happens sparingly. _‘I’ll just have to use my fingers.’_

Dean's breath jolts in a way that can’t be mistaken as relaxed. Unconsciously, one of his hands has climbed up his chest, under his shirt and now that it’s there, Dean kinda just has to let it keep doing what it was doing. He pinches his left nipple, it’s a spark, a snapping bite. Dean’s last resolve crumbles and he hikes his shirt all the way up, moving the laptop off his belly and onto the bed beside him.

He lets out a groan as he wriggles and works his way out of his boxes.

_‘Focus on my finger.’_

Dean’s still fighting with his boxers and his shirt, by the time Cas starts moving his finger in and out of frame. Moving it slow left to right, up, down, near far, pretending to check reflexes, sight.

Dean, finally naked, lays back down on his back, he feels too heavy for his front or side, and falls back into the lull of gently touching himself with the barest of finger thoughts, little pinches and squeezes here and there, to get him back into the mood.

Cas is asking him to recite how many fingers he is holding up now. Dean doesn’t answer, just watches, right up until Cas gives him a thumbs up and laughs at his own joke.

_‘Forgive me, children love that one._ ’ Cas says with his eyes a little lowered, and his cheeks a little pinker than before. There’s a quick, clean, but still obvious to Dean jump where Cas has cut and edited the video and then Cas is back to his serious doctor’s façade.

' _Now, close your left eye. Close your right. Now both. There now you can open—’_ Cas smiles at a job well done. His hands move across the screen in a waving, petting, motion. He waves when Dean ‘opens’ his eyes. _‘Hello. So, you’ve been taking good care of yourself, haven’t you?’_

CasNovak is a fucking gorgeous man. He’s so gorgeous when he does this. When he’s wearing dorky sweaters, when he’s looking bashfully into a camera.

His hair is its usual sleep mussed frenzy and his skin is flushed and pink, Dean’s hand slides down his chest, his stomach, Cas is looking right at him.

_‘How is your diet?’_ Dean’s hand stops on its journey. Cas hums and says; _‘I see. And do you keep hydrated, exercise regularly? With a moderate to intense temperament?’_

Dean shifts, this is edging on the uncomfortable territory he usually gets with his real life—

_‘No, no you’re the perfect weight. Which is to say, that there is no imperfect weight, just unhealthy practises, we are all individuals.’_ Cas goes on, and Dean blushes. _‘Every body and everybody is different. You’re beautiful. Which, I say, of course,’_ Cas clears his throat, and straightens his white coat sleeves, _‘as the upmost professional.’_

 Dean rubs both hands down his chest. He palms at the swell of his stomach, he likes his belly, it’s soft and plump and, he grabs at his sides and squeezes, more cushion for the pushing he was told in college, Rhonda had liked it, so had Cassie and Pam, and Gunner and Adam. Hell, fuck all that, _Dean_ likes it. Likes himself, and he kinda gets a thrill out of the idea that Cas, not just CasNovak but Cas the guy with glasses who works in a craft store, might get a kick out of Dean as he is, too.

' _Now, I’m going to check your periphery vision, to do this we’re going to play with these,’_ Cas wriggles his hands, _‘fingers.’_

Damn those fucken fingers. Dean wants them in his mouth.

The coin finally turns, the hourglass runs out. Dean gives up all pretence of lulling himself to some restful sleep, he turns that corner and damnit he’s going to fuck himself into a nap with Cas’ voice in his ear whispering sweet nothings and medical jargon.

Dean’s mouth is dry, his dick which, let’s be honest, has been less than soft since Cas appeared on the screen with his rumpled doctor’s coat and finger fluttering his strong hands, that Dean would be willing to bet are as strong and dexterous and skilled as he imagines.

He’s already pretty excited from the video itself, so all it takes is a few firm-fisted strokes to make his dick fully hard.

He can see only the head of his dick over the jumping swell of his own stomach. He glances between himself and Cas on the screen, Cas’ voice still filling his headphones, fingers god, Dean would love to wrap his lips around them, lick in between the bases, maybe suck up his own come from Cas’ hands, or Cas’ come, really Dean just wants something in him. Oh, yes, he can imagine it, feel it, Cas fingers pressing up behind his balls, stroking over is skin. He can feel it, looking at Cas’ fingers, can imagine the thickness of them filling him up. He’s leaking into his sloppy fist just thinking about it.

Cas’ video is just background noise now, but the best kind as Dean loses himself in the little fantasy he’s living out right now in his head. It’s got him on edge quicker than anything in weeks. He knows what Cas sounds like now in person, where he measures up to Dean, how he smells in real life. That he wears, not just for an online bit, his dorky sweaters.

He’s ridiculously close to coming already even though he’s being lazy, sluggish, fucking filthy with his strokes, with the hand sneaking down, between his legs, rolling and stroking his balls.

Dean rocks his hips up into the growing friction of his fist over his cock, revelling in the zinging pleasure that courses through his body when his wrist twists just so at the swollen tip.

His other hand slips down, Dean arches a little off his heels, huffs a frustrated breath, before letting himself go, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under the small of his back, he gets back in position.

Dean always feels so fucking good fingering himself. His fingers dry, but it’s just the one so the press and burn of it—sometimes Dean just wants to sit there with a finger up his ass is that so wrong? Cas says…something, but he looks very closely into the camera, Dean groans, He’s not her to stretch out his hole just to play with it a little while he pulls on his cock and palms the spongey head.  Dry, yeah, it always hurts a little wriggling something in there but Dean’s the kinda guy who doesn’t mind a little burn especially when his keep giving tiny, little aborted thrusts up into his warm, now wet fist.

Swollen red with a pearl of come at the top, Dean lifts his hand, wriggled that finger so it pulls on his rim, while spitting into his other hand, getting more of that slickness and easy glide over his shaft. A bit of spittle drips down onto his stomach as he passes his hand back down.

Dean jerks at a particularly nice thrum through his veins, right through his cock. The hand beneath himself is starting to cramp, he moves it and just goes for pressing up behind his balls, wriggling against his hole, little intermittent taps, wrist dragging back and forth against his balls.

When Dean comes its wet and messy, in gluggy spurts that have his whole-body tensing, on the edge of that precipice and then falling over. “Shit, fuck, fuck, ugh, nmm, ah, _fuck_.”

His headphones where pulled out, fallen out during all, that. Dean jumps on the spacebar, pausing Cas’ video. He pulls a face at the state of his hand, the underside of his belly where his cockhead’s smeared a sticky mess.  Dean rolls to the side of the couch and cleans himself off with a t-shirt doomed for the wash. After, he crawls back into bed, under the covers this time, throws his headphones back in just as Cas is starting to wind down, these full check-up roleplays are definitely on the longer side of ASMR spectrum of roleplay.

Cas continues on, completely ignorant, as always, to Dean’s little sidebar jerk-off sesh. He holds his hand up to the camera, moving in slow, graceful movements, almost petting. _‘Do you mind now that I have my gloves on, doing a quick inspection—’_

“Of my butt?” Dean cuts in.

‘-Of your ears?’  Cas asks.

Dean’s well, he’s _tired._ He collapses into a fit of sated, exhausted giggles. While listening to the last of Cas’ video, sleep comes easily, yet his dreams are pretty goddamned dirty and that’s not much of a surprise at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are love <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **As always unbeated, unedited, unread**

 

Friday comes around and there’s a knock on Dean’s office door.

Andy Gallager, one of their community volunteers, is standing in the entrance to Dean’s (his alone Monday through Thursday) office, he’s changed out pf his soft crocs, all the nurses here were crocs don’t judge him, and is in a pair of sneakers. Not in scrubs like the rest of the village staff, but still in casual enough clothes, with just his lanyard around his neck that Dean wonders where he’s going.

“You ready boss?” he asks.

Dean looks at him blankly for a moment. Numbers and figures and patient information still swirling in his head. “Uh…”

“Jo said you were coming on the run today?”

The run; a bi weekly excursion the staff and volunteers partnered up on to take some of the seniors (those who could and those who wanted to) to a collection of shops and stops in town. Dean did his run with Pam two weeks ago, he wasn’t back on the roster for an excursion for another two weeks.

“What?” Dean asks.

Andy looks remorseful for a moment and Dean realises his tone was harsh. Paper work, numbers, he’s a little distracted. “Sorry, just…Jo told you--”

“That you were accompanying the seniors today instead of her, we’re heading off now in like,” Andy glances at the clock, does what looks like from the expressions on his face some complicated math. “Ten minutes.”

“Run in ten minutes.” Dean repeats, shaking his head the words sink in. He scrubs a palm over his mouth, up into his hair, and tugs a little shit. That little shit. He gets up out of his chair and brushes past Andy, starting down the hall into the home’s wings. “Right uh, give me a sec. Jo? Jo Harvelle?”

Andy scurries along behind him. “I think she’s in B block.”

Dean swerves down the next hallway, he knows this place like the back of his hand, probably better than that even, navigation comes second nature. He squeaks his way into B-block, his own crocs reacting to the liounemoium floor. He turns into the wing and hears Jo before he sees her, her laugh coming out of one of the resident’s rooms.

Dean raps on the doorframe at the same time as he enters. Jo’s sitting on the floor in front of a man in his late eighties, Richard. She’s helping him put his slippers on. There’s a half done crossword across his lap.

“Hey Rich.” Dean greets. Richard eyes him up and down. “You look ruffled, son.”

“Thanks Rich.”

“You got a girl yet boy?”

“Not yet Rich. Jo, hey,” Dean diverts the conversation quickly or he’ll be caught in a debate about the decline of American family values for the rest of his shift. “Can I have a sec?”

“Sure.” Jo says, making no move to get or, nor stop what she’d doing.  
  
Dean just goes on ahead because, honestly, he’s freaking confused. “What’s this about me taking your run today?”

Jo winces and gestures to the one leg she has outstretched, Dean noticed for the first time, she’d got her scrub pants pulled up and her sock pulled down, exposing reddened skin to the open air. “Banged my ankle helping Mr Andrews out of the shower this morning.” Jo stops with Richard’s slippers and claps her hands together in prayer. “Please Dean. Please Dean.”

“Be a hero son.” Richard offers. Jo knows what’s she’s doing, she has most of the old guys around here wrapped around her knife wielding finger, the sneak.

“You,” Dean points a finger at Richard. Shakes it. “You be a-”

“Don’t threaten the residents, Dean.” Pamela says as she happens past. She scales on back to the open doorway, pokes her head in and eyes Jo on the floor, critically. “You hop-skip that ankle right up to Jody, now. I don’t want you dropping the ball and getting someone else hurt.”

Jo helps herself up off the floor, while Dean feels his cheeks flush. He shoves his hand in his pocket.

“I wasn’t-” But Pam’s already walking away. He turns to Jo, sees her struggling so he holds her under the arm and helps her up off the floor. “Look, I’ll take this run okay, but I have about two tonnes of paperwork to get in before clock out.”

Jo’s expression drops, then hardens in resolve. “I’ll do it.” She says, taking a step back out of Dean’s arms to take some weight on her ankle. Dean makes a move forward to catch her, escort her to Jody, but she just shuffles a bit, doesn’t wince but smiles thinly, shooing Dean off. “I’ll do it, I’m fine, a cushy desk job for the afternoon

“Cushy.” Richard says eyes on Dean, on his stomach.  Kids and old men, seem to both say whatever it is they’re thinking. Though kids usually with less judgement.  
  
Dean just smiles, Turns to Jo. “Know where this Caravan of Courage is going today?”

“The kids want to go to the craft store.” Jo answers offhandedly, gathering up her things. Richard passes her, her notepad. “They need to pick up supplies for their project.”

It takes Dean a second and when it hits _it hits._ “T-the craft store.’ He coughs. Clears his throat. Jo raises an eyebrow and Dean pretends he doesn’t see her interest. “Yeah. Right. Awesome, uh, crafts.”

Jo’s lips are kicked up a little. She smiles at him, touches his arm as she comes for. “I owe you one Dean,” she tells him. “Really.”

“It’s fine. The papers are on my desk, don’t do anything until you get Jody to check you out. Do as the boss lady said.”

“The boss lady is a mumma hen.” Jo says with an ill-disguised eye roll.

Dean leans around her and addresses Richard. “You make sure she shuffles her ass to go get checked out, right Richard?”

“I’ll take care of her.” Richard grins, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening to crevices.  
  
Jo swats him gently. “Hey now, that’s my job!”

Dean leaves them too it, heading for the van out front. As he walks down the hall, the panic sits in.

He’s been actively avoiding the crafts store along his route home since that first day. Seeing CasNovak in person again, seeing Cas in person again, while now actively watching his videos again…

Maybe he can just send Andy out with the kids and man the van from the parking lot.

 

 

oOo

 

 

Riding off to the craft store Dean is mentally prepping himself.  He is also driving, conscious of himself, the road, other drivers, of course, so this lends itself to a little less mental prep that he feels he needs as they pull up into the parking lot on Main Street, a few shops down from Cas’ store.

It’s a coordinated, two-person effort to get every resident safely out of the van and into some semblance of a controlled gathering enough to get them moving. As with most people over the age of sixty-five it’s less of a walk through the nearby shops and more of a long, winding shuffle with mobility scooters and walking canes and but Dean likes the speed, likes the dawdle. He rarely gets to just walk aimless much anymore.

Usually, it gives him time to breathe, to just soak in the trinkets and stuff and junk around him mindless, non-pushy. Just counting out change when needed, carrying the bags.

Dean doesn’t mind being a personalised pack mule, he operates well in that identity, the weight is grounding, the purpose of it all direct and affirming and a distraction, a least, to the pervading panic.

Dean wonders if Cas will remember him. 

When Mildred leads the charge into sky blue, soft grey painted, _Heavenly Crafts_ store Dean halts a little outside before the bell chimes. Cas is in there, he can see him through the shops display window. Messed up hair, the same as it is in his channel, does he just not style or, just styles it messily purposefully? Dean doesn’t know, but it looks _good._

Missouri pops up beside him like a friggen psychic ninja. “Mind your manners boy,” she says in a passing but conspiratorial whisper. “It’s rude to stare.”

Dean throws his eyes to the opposite side of the street and straightens up. “Yes ma’am.”

She nods and he follows her in, a quick; "Jesus, I am so fucking whipped." Coming out like a sigh from his lips.

“Don’t cuss.” Missouri grumbles. Dean salutes her off and minds his p’s and q’s.

The little bell above the door jingles pleasantly as Dean steps through the door. The shop colours arranged in rainbow, one whole side of the store in red, the opposite, a deep indigo falling into greys, white, creams, black. The bins and stacks are already getting raided by the residents, Dean can see Missouri and Gladys admiring with their fingers the spinning wheel off in the corner.

Dean steps into the closest aisle, the aisle furthest from Cas and the counter and where the stacks of fabric and yarn are highest. Nice, soft. Dean makes an effort to touch most of the fabrics he comes across. No silk or uh, no of course there wouldn’t be, but the felt is kinda nice. Dean doesn’t know what this next one is but it’s…really soft. He holds it up to his face, rubs his palms and his fingers all over it.

Dean gets so lost looking through some of the soft fabrics on the other side of the room that he doesn’t notice Cas creeping up on him until the other man speaks.

“It’s you again,” Cas says. Dean jumps and freezes whirls around. Today, Cas’ woollen sweater has mistletoe all over it. It’s August. “Hello.”

“Yeah, uh, hi.” Dean shoves the fabric he’s holding back into the shelf. He watches Cas’ mouth twitch and realizes, yeah, shove shit. He whirls around and folds the piece again carefully, placing it back, just as carefully. He turns again and jerks a thumb behind him. God what did Cas say? “Yeah, hi. Just me and the pussy, _posse_. Fuck.”

Yeah. Definite lip quirk that time. Good thing? Dean decides to let it be a good thing.

“You’re a nurse, in aged care that actually—” Castiel looks Dean over with a head tilt. “Makes a lot of sense.”  
  
The awkwardness Dean feels standing here all gussied up in his scrubs and crocs, eases a little. “Yeah?”  
  
Castiel nods. Smiles. “When you came in the other week, I thought you were a doctor.”

Dean bristles a bit. He’s had this conversation before.

Castiel goes on: “I had just assumed from the scrubs but, your demeanour…”

“Whattaya mean my demeanour?”

He blinks. “I mean nothing by that mind, I just—” there’s a pause where Castiel seems to be thinking his words through, eyes on the floor and Dean feels bad. Jumping down the guy’s throat, it’s just, he gets the whole, oh you’re _just_ a nurse, not a _doctor,_ sthick a lot. He got it from his dad, and he’s sick of tolerating it from strangers.

“You don’t seem as hardened by your job, as I thought a doctor would be. You’re…softer.”

The words sink in. _Did Cas just call him fat?_ Castiel looks up and Dean can’t stop the frown from blooming on his face, hardening (not _softening)_ his heart. “Softer,” he repeats. “So, less hardened by the-the grim realities of the real work? Right? Cos I’m _just_ a nurse.”  
  
Castiel immediately starts shaking his head. He holds up his hands. “No, I—Forgive me.” He tucks his hands in his arm pits, holding himself and yep, Dean feels like a dick again, always jumping. “I’ve insulted you.”

“Nah, man I’m just.” Dean shrugs, struggling to find the right word. “Prickly, about that.”  
  
“If it lessens the slight; I did intend it as a compliment. The work you do is honourable, meaningful and—”

“I don’t need the Tony Robbins spiel but, uh, thanks.” Dean has to look away because the earnestness of Cas’ face is digging at him. Prickling his skin like brushing the tips of lawn grass in spring. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets, his crocs squeak as he shifts his weight. “Suppose you don’t see any of those 120K a year brain surgeons babysitting gramps and grandma while they shop for wool and fabric, eh?”

Cas’ smile’s slow to come back, but it does. He looks almost bashful now. Shoulders up to his ears like that. “I don’t make a habit of talking with customers. Outside of what is required to complete a transaction.” 

“You only play if they pay?”

What. _What?_  
  
“If you want to put it that way.” Castiel says, with a gummy, goofy, pink grin.  
  
Dean grins back, it’s infectious. “I-I do.” He holds back the instinctual wink.

_Reign it in Winchester._

“I admit, I was hoping that you would come back.” Castiel says.

Oh shit, uh, Dean thinks he knows that look. It’s the look of interest of, hey dinner, movie? Maybe? Is Cas queer? Regardless, it makes him all itchy and hot under his scrubs and not in entirely in the good way. He feels his smile shift. “Look, Cas—”

“Exactly, see. _Cas_ ” Cas points an accusing finger at Dean but is still all smiles when he says; “You watch my videos.”

Dean’s pretty sure he’s blushing now, right up to his ears. “I uh—”

Unexpectedly, Cas bursts into a flurry of voice and action, coming in hot and close. “I have a lot of questions actually, if you don’t mind, about my production, you see, or maybe you actually have seen I’ve been having a little trouble with the lighting in my last few videos and I’ve been thinking of branching out into some proper backdrops and audio insulation, I have enough money from my Pateron after all.”

Dean knows. He’s one of those patrons. Eight bucks a month to get a little extra Cas, to help the dude out. In his mind, it’s one hundred percent worth it.

“And, I’ve never met a viewer in person before. I’ve never been recognized or anything.” Cas smiles as though that pleases him deeply. He looks at Dean from the corner of his eyes a moment, nervous, then races on. “And I just want to create the best content possible, if you had any feedback, any at all, that would help me immensely.”

Dean feels like he’s been left trailing behind in some sort of race. “Feedback?”

“Yes. Any at all.”

“I, uh, I dunno man. I just watch and half the time I’m—” jerking off, “I fall asleep in the middle of ‘em.”

“Surely there must be something you’ve noticed or wanted changed. This is just such a rare opportunity to get feedback that’s outside of a saturated YouTube comments section and,” Cas frowns down at his hands, “Trolls on the internet.”

Fuck the trolls. Dean’ll punch ‘em. Right in their trolly faces.

“Chap stick,” he says abruptly.

Dean says…chap stick.

Okay…?

“I—“ Cas blinks. Purses his lips. “What of it?”

“You, ah, need some chap stick, sometimes, your lips.” Dean realises as he’s speaking that he’s just _staring_ at Cas’ lips like an absolute creeper. He recoils, tries to cover the frantic move with a shrug and half a cough. “It’s—they’re ah, kinda dry, dude.”

He watches Cas’ hand come up. Fingers press gently against his lips. Cas wets them with his tongue, considering. “Oh, yes.”

“But, everything else is great. Everything’s…” perfect would come on too strong Dean guesses, trying, failing, to keep that line. He can’t be the weird guy who fans out over some dude he only knows exists from some choice vids on the internet. “Honestly, don’t think you should change a thing Cas. You’re good.”

Cas smiles at that. His hand drops. He looks to Dean, one eyebrow pitched slightly higher. “You don’t think I should buy the 3Dio Free Space Binaural Microphone?”

Oh.

Dean can just imagine the tingling possibilities with a mic that high tech and sensitive. His toes curl in his shoes. A little buzzing starts up at the base of his neck, the promise of something pleasant. Cas’ voice with that mic would be _an experience._ “Okay. Maybe do that change.”

Castiel hums a low laugh behind closed lips. His lips are pink, it’s not that Dean hasn’t noticed before, Cas’ face is always up in his when he watches Cas’ videos, but the soft moue they lead into looks more pronounced in person. Dean’s noticing shit. Like, how his upper lip is thicker, flatter than the bottom, they press together softly. Damn.

Dean doesn’t get giggly over looks this often. Over _people_ this often.

But Cas is smiling at him so sweetly, patiently; like he’s genuinely interested in Dean's opinion.

Castiel smiles again, because every one of his individual smiles IRL needs to be documented somehow, flashing those gums. 

Dean finds himself returning it.

A voice breaks whatever air is between them. “Winchester!”

Dean turns. Edward and Gladys want his attention.

“We’ve been calling you for five minutes boy.” Edward says with a huff, even if he is exaggerating.

Oh shit- yeah, Cas is here with a job to do.

And Dean has a job to do as well.

“Sorry, guys.” Dean apologises, breaking off from Cas without a backwards look. His kids come first. He stops before the pair, his sunniest smile in place. “We got everything?”

“Almost.” Edward says and lifts one hand to point at the pigeon hole wall of yarn. “Gladys wants a roll of that teal colour up there.”

Way, way up there. Dean over exaggerating, rolls up his sleeves. “On it. Edward, spot me.”

Both residents laugh. Gladys slow and low. Dean climbs

“Here you go gorgeous.” He says when he comes back down. He passes Gladys the teal roll then winks.

“Charmer.” She says softly.

“Speaking of—” Edward cuts in and looks meaningfully past their little huddle to the front counter.

Cas is there and so is Milly, and by the looks of it she’s giving him an earful, in that low, soul shattering; ‘I’m not angry I’m disappointed’ way of hers.

“When you get to be my age, you have no time for nonsense. I don’t care for it.” Dean hears her say as he comes over. Cas looks like a trapped animal, nodding silently as though trying to will her away by the sheer wideness of his eyes alone.

“Milly, hey. Be nice to the nice man.” Dean says, coming up on her walker. He makes sure to mouth ‘sorry’ to Cas, and is met with an expression filled with shaky relief.

“It’s alright,” Cas waves him off because of course he does he’s just that nice kinda guy. “Mrs Harlan’s was just asking me some questions about--”

“Are you a homosexual?” Milly asks.

Dean whirls on her. “Mildred!” at the same time as Cas answers; “Yes.”  
  
Dean whirls again, this time to stare at the side of Cas angular face.  
  
Mildred waves a wrinkled hand in Dean’s general direction. “So is he.”  
  
Dean is dead. He’s died. Not only is that a downright, god damned lie (he’s bisexual and aromantic thank you very much) but it is also just highly, highly inappro—

He feels Cas’ eyes trace over him, stop, take him in. No smile just, consideration.

It’s purely a Pavlovian response that that look gives Dean tingles.   
  
“You should come to the home and teach some of these goons how to craft a proper Stockinette Stitch.” Milly continues.

“The trick is to alternate twice with a knit row and a purl row.” Cas answers demurely.

“I know that.” Mildred snaps and looks him over for a long moment. “Yet, not everyone does.” She throws the rest of their group the stink eye and it takes the part of Dean that’s still miraculously living to not chuckle as Cas’ brief expression of disbelief and awkwardness.

“We’re making sweaters and knitting for the local homeless shelter,” Milly explains in a low growl, as though she’s deeply unhappy about the whole thing and it wasn’t her idea at all. That old bag. “Hopefully they could use the extra garb, pass some supplies out on the street.”

Cas looks between the both of them, surprised. “You’re knitting, for the homeless?”  
“Knitting with kindness? Yeah, it was uh,” Dean shrugs, points. “Milly’s idea.”

Mildred swats him. Kinda hard too. “Dean is helping with organization and distribution.”  
  
Cas’ attention swoops to him.

Is it possible to shrug too much? Dean concentrates very hard on not moving his shoulder an inch. “I just had to make a couple of phone calls.”  
  
“It is really, a lovely thought.” Cas says to Dean.

“Yeah, well, y’know.” Damnit it the shrug. Dean’s hand’s side his opposite sides and latch on like a little hug. “So you knit?” _Obviously, obviously obviously god damnit._ However, Mildred seems just as interested in Cas answer.

“I knitted this.” Cas says looking down at his own sweater. He seems to think better of the indirect answer and replies. “Yes. I can.”

Mildred’s lips purse. “You should teach this raggle. Then they might stop dropping stitches and start knitting.”

Cas pales a shade so fast that Dean has the urge to call an ambulance. “I haven’t—”

He jumps in to assure the other man. “Cas, don’t worry about it, you’re on the spot.”

But Cas shakes his head. “No, I was considering posting flyers for a knitting club and classes to be hosted here afterhours in the Spring. I could assist you with your project as something of a test run.”

“It’s not _my_ project.” Dean stammers. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to. As I said, it’s a meaningful and important cause. It’s, close to my heart.” Cas looks up at him with resolution holding fast in his blue-eyed gaze. His voice’s taken on that gravelly, demanding rumble that Dean’s not ashamed to admit (maybe a little ashamed now that Cas is an actual person and not some internet fantasy) has had him coming into his hand or his sheets at least half a dozen times.

“It would mean a lot to help you.”

“We’ll pay.” Dean offers him.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“We’ll insist on it anyway.”

They look at each other silently for a full blown out minute.

Mildred bumps his side with her walker. Mumbles something that sounds a lot like ‘mucking pilgrim’ but, yeah, probably isn’t that.

Dean snaps back, runs a hand through his hair down over his forehead. “There’s some things I need to run by Pam, and administration, a visitor’s pass, some files, permission from the TPTB.”

Cas, nodding along with him, agrees then answers; “I can give you any paper work or information you need.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“He will need your phone number to make the call.” Mildred cuts in.

It’s probably illegal for Dean to push down an eighty–plus year old woman so he refrains.

Cas blinks, makes a soft ‘o’ with his lips then jumps for some paper and a pen. “Right, yes.” He’s right handed, writes in cursive, writes his name and then prints larger and in bold his actual honest to god phone number. Dean’s stomach swoops.

He takes the slip when it’s offered to him. “Thanks.”

“I’m excited for this.” Cas says and yeah, actually, he looks it. “Maybe we could talk more, later. About my channel, I don’t often get the chance to pick my audience’s brains so intimately.”

“I’m just one dude, dude.”  
  
The look Cas throws him is just this side of coy. “The only ‘dude’ I’ve got.”

The dorky finger quotes strike Dean down. He is literally dead.

Ain’t that something. There’s that swoop of attraction again and Dean just, god. He steps back from the counter, one hand seeking out Mildred’s frame to hold him up.

“Right, yeah, I’ve gotta get these kids back on the bus.” He backs up hard into a shelf, nothing falls but Dean’s self-worth and confidence. “I’ll, I’ll ring you, or text about it.”

Cas doesn’t seem the least bit worried that his big random guy is knocking his stock around. “Yes.” He says.

“Yes. Right.” Dean nods, pats the shelf behind him and untangles himself from the whole seen. “See ya, Cas.”

“See you, Dean.”

Dean runs, as much as he’s physically able, outside, leaving Andy to deal with purchases. It takes about twenty minutes before Andy and the kids to come out, Mildred’s frame holding the most of the purchases, Dean picks up couple of bags to add to the ones he’s already carrying but doesn’t speak to her, just stalks out to the head of the pack, leading them back to the van.

It isn’t until they’re in the parking lot that Andy seems to feel safe about letting the kids trail behind them as he sidles up alongside Dean. “So… cute craft shop guy is cute.”

Dean rests his bag on the ground and between his gut and the van as he digs out their ride’s keys. “Shut up Andy.”

Of course, Edward was close enough to hear everything. He asks loudly; “Nurse Winchester is a _homosexual_?”

Dean rolls his eyes, unlocks the door and helps everyone and their stuff back onto the van.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are love <3
> 
> soupernabturel.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! You also may have noticed I've added yet _another_ part to this story and that is because, yes, as expected, this final chapter got away from me and is now massive. 
> 
> So here's part one, next part will be a lovely Christmas/NewYears gift, from me, to you.

Dean’s filing papers and filling forms when Jo rounds into the doorway and raps on the frame. She’s got her blue shirt and black slacks over her arm, changed into her everyday clothes, a tank, three-quarter cargo pants, she looks like an entirely different person, younger.

“Winchester.” 

“Harvelle.” Dean throws back, mock-seriously. He cracks a kiddish smile at the last moment, unable to hold the same steely edge Pamela can. “Sorry, Jo. What’s up?”

“Pam wants you.”

Dean works really hard on making his smile a smile and not a smirk. “Everybody wants me.”

“Cute,” Jo says blandly. She’s off shift she’s tired, she finds Dean funny, he knows, but she’s trying too hard to not let him see it. She looks away as the corner of her mouth kicks up. She clears her throat. “Doesn’t make up for the fact that half the home and most of the staff know you have a hot dudes number burning a hole in your wallet and you’re depriving our senior citizens important dexterity exercise because you’re afraid the dude might not wanna get his dick wet.”

This conversation took a one-eighty. Dean straightens up so fully in his chair, so quickly

“H-h,” he swallows. Figures the files out in his desk, stacking them and shuffling them, he’d put them in alphabetical order right then, right there but, yeah, not suss. Dean darts his eyes to Jo, throws them away. “How did you—" 

Jo rolls her eyes, there’s affection there but Dean’s too flustered to see it. “Seniors talk, Dean. Anyways, that’s probably what Pam wants you for.” Jo smirks a little, raps her knuckles again, realising what she’s said. “The knitting, not the, ah, dick wetting.” She winks.

Dean’s groan is a physical thing, ripping out of him. He doesn’t head desk, but he is very close, simply splaying his arms out on his desk and turning his cheek down onto them.

“Why do you all hate me?”

“You’re too pretty to hate, Dean. Now—” Jo makes a shooing gesture with on hand. “Shoo, go.”

“Ugh.” Dean slumps up out of his chair, a possessed marionette with cut strings trying to stand up on his own, it’s a slog.

The two of them walk together down the hall, but Jo splits off when they reach the front desk, giving Dean a bump and a squeeze as she heads out. Dean walks the rest of the way alone and doesn’t, stop and check in with every open door to speak to the residents, to dawdle to a little checking out the bulletin boards, looking in on the garden and the chooks.

Cas’ number isn’t burning a hole in his pocket (it’s burning a hole in his wallet but that’s neither here nor there) he’s just…there’s paper’s to be sorted out and hoops strung up with red tape to be jumped through and any other allegories or idioms or whatever’s that Dean can tell himself to quench down on the pervasive nerves that dig out in his chest.

Eventually, Pam’s office doesn’t rear up, Dean is there, standing outside it.

She must be a friggen psychic or something because Dean’s only just got to the damn door and already her voice rings out, “Come in.”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Little, supervillain-y there boss.”

“Don’t boss me Winchester, you—” Pam sits back in her chair, and eyes Dean critically in her doorway. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Dean ignores that. Swallows. “Jo said you, uh, wanted to see me?”

He stands like a statue by the door while Pam looks up to there, her expression kind but still sharpened.

“I’ve had some questions about the seniors knitting classes, specifically, when they will be underway.” She leads.

“Well, we’ve been—”

Pam goes on, looks down at the program proposal, Dean sketched it up days ago, the turn around time on these sorts of things usually is pretty awful but Dean seems to have, for the first time, come across a streak of paperwork speed boosts. Lucky him. “You have the supplies? The attendees?”

“It’s been two days. I’m getting, some uh, more, papers together, a plan—”

“Everything seems to be here.” Pam says, looking up at Dean through her eyelashes, one brow quirked. Dean see the slightly fainter marks puckered on either side of her eyebrow, scars of an old piercing healed over long ago. “And my understanding is you have the perfect teacher.”

Dean nods.

Pam settles back in her chair, runs a hand through her hair. “Quid pro quo, the kids are getting angsty, Milly’s banging down my door, apparently, you’ve been avoiding her. Avoiding a seventy-year-old woman Dean—” though there’s a little amusement there, it’s buried under enough seriousness that Dean knows better to hang back. “Is there a problem here?”

“No, I just…” Nothing, nada. He wants to do this, he _wants_ to do this. The kids want to do this, Cas does—Dean just needs to, suck it up, whatever it is. Breath in, breath out. “Needed to get things together. Was actually going to contact Cas, the uh, teacher, today and ask him to come in for a first session.” Dean scrambles through his own mental calendar. “Next week.”

“Ask if he can come in this Thursday,” says Pam. “This is a really great idea Dean, some of the residents, I haven’t seen them this raring and engaged in one of our programs in months. Robert actually came out of his room the other day, granted he was back up in there ten minutes later, but the point is, he was _ou_ t.”

“I’ll get it done.” Dean says. “I’ll get it sorted tonight.”

“Tonight.” Pamela repeats, an edge to her words. That line between both and friend blurring a little as she asks him with tone and silence if he’s okay, if supports needed.

There’s a riot going on in Dean’s stomach but he fixes a smile onto his face. “Yep. Pinkie promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” Pamela grins. Dean smiles back, genuinely, and turns to head out the door but he’s caught. “And Dean?” asks Pamela.

“Mmm?”

“It’s easier to talk to cute boys over the phone if you do a little rehearsal beforehand,” she says turns back to her desk, but probably not fast enough to not catch the burst of red flooding Dean’s face.

 

 

________

 

 

 _CASNOVAK_ has posted a new video _ASMR 30 Unusual Triggers to Make You Sleep & Tingle (mic brushing, layered sounds, inaudible whispers & more) _

Dean just needs to relax a little, he figures. Cas gave him his number, Cas wants to talk to him.

About work, Cas wants to talk to him about work, about charity and knitting and old people.

Or something relating to all that, Dean’s tired, maybe he should hold off until tomorrow…

He’s blowing this all out of proportion.

Dean’s lying on his back on his bed, a shirt and sweats. Is it weird that he’s got Cas’ voice in one ear ‘ska, sk, ska, sk-ing’, blunt nails tapping and scratching at hessian fabric while he’s texting the guy? It would probably be more professional to call, and certainly not to call Cas so far outside business hours but, Dean’s not in the mind frame to phone, and if he can avoid it he often does. It’s actually lulling what Cas is doing on the screen, it’s weird.

The camera’s focused on Cas’ torso with a row of glasses on the table in front of him, positioned centre stage they’re filled with water he’s circling the edges, tapping the sides, a tingy little ringing is coming out. With the faint layered sounds in the background, Cas voice, rain maybe.

Dean gets lost, like he normally does, watching the screen, Cas is dropping food colouring into the glasses, a different colour per glass, red, blue, purple, green. It’s like watching smoke curl in the air, wisps of colour, hypnotic almost, the sound and everything is lulling Dean off, he’s sinking into his bed, the layers of sound, Cas deep rumble rolling through him, a horn sounds.

Dean’s eyes snap open. What…was that a car horn?

His earbuds fall out as he rolls onto his side, he thumbs at his phone without thought, kinda stuck in that awkward place of unfulfilled tingles, trust him, it’s a real thing—that inch of satisfaction niggles at him, he was so close too.

Dean— _at the 15:34 mark the layered sounds trips up on today’s vid. Car horn or something, kinda jolts you out of it_

Dean— _this is Dean_

Shit, maybe Cas knows a couple of Dean’s. Also, shit, was that rude?

Before Dean can send; “Dean Winchester the nur—” he gets a text in response, from Castiel. Of course, it’s from Castiel. His little blue dots come up on the screen, who else would be text Dean right now, Sam?

Castiel— _Hello Dean, I’m glad you got in contact. Thanks for picking up on the sound, re-uploading now_

Dean sees it happen on his screen. Ten, fifteen minutes, the video disappears, when it comes back up it’s with an apology in the notes. _Brought to my attention by a friend there was a slight audio mix-up, I haven’t proofed the new location just yet for sound blocking, so things are not as crisp as usual. I apologise. New video up Friday! :)_

Another message pops up as Dean is reading.

Castiel— _Better_?

Dean’s smiling as he types— _Yeah, better_

Castiel— _you like the video? It’s a bit unusual_

Dean pffts into his empty room— _It’s the internet man, way weirder stuff than that_

Castiel— _Is that a challenge?_

Dean smirks— _I mean if you’ve got it in you?_

Castiel— _Do you have something in mind? Triggers you’d like explored?_

Dean _—You’re a hungry ASMRtist aren’t ya? Sides, given my two cents on your Pateron._

Castiel— _Can never have too much feedback. I rarely converse with Paterons on a personal level, as you know, I’ve wanted to have something a little more, back and forth for awhile._

Dean— _That’s all I am to you? A critical eye?_

Castiel— _critical ear more like and no_

Castiel— _I assume you didn’t contact me to_ _comment on my audio_

Dean shifts till he’s sitting back against his headboard, pillows propped up around him, elbows on his thighs while he texts, thinking over his words carefully— _got the go ahead from the higher ups, was wondering if you wanted to host your first class for the kids Thursday?_

Castiel— _Kids?_

Dean— _Senior residents. They’re all my big, grey-haired babies_

Dean wishes he hadn’t sent that.

He gets a string of laughing emoji’s in reply. Then:

Castiel— _I’d love to come in_

Castiel— _Will you be there?_

Dean’s text comes out sounding about as stiff as the wording is in his documentation— _A nurse has to be on duty at all times to facilitate the programing from our end._

Castiel— _Yes_

Dean bites at his lower lip— _To supervise you_

Castiel— _I may need it ;)_

Dean laughs. He’s smiling as he taps out a reply. Talking to Cas is…surprisingly easy.

Dean— _So, yeah I’ll be there_

Castiel— _Good :)_

Kinda…flirty. Dean tosses that thought out almost as soon as it grabs in his mind. Getting involved with friends is messy, never good. There’s always someone with expectations, wanting more than what Dean can give or even wants to give, and that’s—

That’s a jump. He barely knows Cas, has talked to the man friggen _twice._

Dean— _To supervise. Really the details are up to you, I’m handing the reigns over. Of creative control at least. Y’know_

Castiel sends through a string of bee emoji’s, flower emoji’s and some stars. Then a cat, then a dog.

Friggen weird emoji-enthusiast. God, he’s texting like some of the residents who muck around on their grandkids cell phones for the first time, amazing by these ‘new-fangled pictographs, gosh-darn.’

Dean— _Think I’m gonna need a second supervisor_

 

 

________

 

 

It’s kinda funny how texts start to come so easy after that.

Dean— _Who do you watch? ASMR-Wise_

Cas— _ASMR-Tingle-Witch is a soothing channel_

Dean— _oh yeah? Never watched them. What’s their content?_

Conversation flows between them, an easy steady back and forth that, Dean admits quietly to himself, he hasn’t had in a long time. Sure, he talks to his brother, Sam, probably more regularly than anyone else, weekly catch ups with his mum, done on the phone when he can’t find the time or energy to head over for Sunday lunch. There’s even the cursory call to his dad on a near weekly basis, not to discount catching up with Tessa, Benny, Lisa and Victor, now-and-again out to dinner or drinks or just squatting for an evening in a booth at Benny’s, the best Cajun restraint in all of Lawrence Kansas.

There’s also talking to Charlie and the rest of his WOW guild online, which counts, yes, Dean’s not of the belief that just because he’s talking to friends who are far away that he can only talk through a screen, but they're still his friends. 

But talking with Cas its...different, Dean isn’t really sure how or why. But it feels like weeks over a few days of back and forth, Dean coming to know Cas; obsession with emoji’s (out of context entirely emoji’s intimately) to heard Cas grew up in Pontiac, moved around a lot, doesn’t see much of his family, really want to own a dog.

And the texting is _constant_.  Dean knocks off shift and he has texts that he hasn’t gotten around to answering throughout the day piling up on his phone, not even real text just Cas’ vacant, almost private musing, pictures and snippets of his day. He wakes up with a message or two, finds himself firing some back while he’s waiting for his coffee, searching for his socks, locking up his baby in the Cherry Parks car park.

Over the next few days, Dean’s phone gets bombarded with texts from Cas proclaiming factoids that can only be explained by someone who watches a lot of nature documentaries in their free time. He pretends to be annoyed but secretly, man, Dean never knew that there was so much to learn about snails.

Some are obvious:

Cas _—The only measurable difference between snails and slugs is that the former has a shell_

Some strange and hilarious:

Cas— _One researcher argues that the myth of Cupid’s arrow might come from the mating rituals of_ _Helix aspersa_ _,_ _a garden snail._ _Some of these snails shoot “love darts” at the object of their affections, containing mucus that increases the chances of their sperm surviving_

Cas— _snails are hermaphrodites, and both individuals receive sperm during mating  
_

Cas— _FYI_

Some disgusting:

Cas— _Some studies have found that snail mucus might be useful to help wounds heal, possibly by triggering an immune response that helps skin cells regenerate_

Some weird and endearing:

Cas— _Some garden snails prefer eating from the same food source as another snail, even when there is other food readily available nearby._

Hell, Dean _likes_ his days being filled with moment of Cas’ weirdness. And yeah, there’s moments where Dean notices the undercurrent to their conversations, where he finds himself thinking, hey, year, wouldn’t mind getting with him (c’mon, what else was that whole snail love darting about?)

By the time Thursday rolls around, Dean’s comfortable enough with, _whatever’s_ going on with Cas in text to not have any specific reason to text him but to just enjoy the nicely distant companionship.

Seeing Cas in person though is another matter entirely.

Dean’s gathering all the kids who want to knit into the common space when his phone vibrates in his pants pocket.

Cas— _Out front ave geared send health_

Surprisingly sparse, autocorrected, and ungrammatical for Cas, Dean reads it twice and feels his chest squeeze.

Cas is here.

“Jo, hey Jo.” Dean slides up alongside Jo in the front hall, her hands are full which puts a foil in Dean’s plan. He plucks the files from her grasp, it met with a ‘Hey’ but is already taking off, looks like these files need to go to…the records room. “Cas needs your help out front.” Dean says spinning away.

Jo chases after him. “Cas?”

“Just, go please?” Dean shoes her, far enough away that he hopes, she can’t catch the flush to his cheeks. It’s _Castiel_ here at work. This isn’t YouTube. “Be useful.”

“I’m _always_ useful.” Jo grumbles but goes anyway.

Dean feels a little bad but umm, he has to center himself. Calm down a second, he walks slowly to the records room, and goes about filing with the kind of measured breathes ASMR inspires, it takes a bit longer than usual, and Dean’s walk back to the main room might be something more of a shuffle than a full out waddle, but he’s dealing with it.

Cas is here.

Coming into the main room, where they have a lot of group art therapy and home sanctioned activities, the turnout is actually above average, not anything to sniff at when your participatory audience is about eighty-year-old plus. Cas and Jo are both setting up supplies on a nearby table, and Cas is wearing a god-awful knitted sweater, some putrid orange colour that’s absolutely the wort thing that Dean has ever seen.

“Thanks for sending the small fry, Dean.” Jo snips she’s holding literally a tub of wool.

“Cas,” Dean greets, yeah that’s cool, that’s a friendly greeting he couples it with a chin jerk, the nod of badassery, Cas’ answering smile is gummy and Dean has to look away to hide his own stupid smile. He turns to Jo. “You got it.”

Cas has an endlessly endearing case of bedhead, his eyes are slightly lidded behind his glasses, as though he hasn’t been sleeping. He stumbles a bit holding at a stack of what looks like knitting patterns and magazines up against his chest. He speaks gravel rough as his glasses slip down his nose.

“Hello Dean.”

Dean smiles. “Hey.”

“Uh,” Jo cuts in, holding her own load. “Spot, please?”

“Yes. Yes. Here.” Dean jerks back while Cas swings around, directing Jo to the table. She dumps the tub and stretches out her back, while Cas lays out his books and patterns busying himself with neatening things up. “Here will be fine.”

Freed, Jo looks between them curiously. “Didn’t know you two knew each other.”

Dean’s still formulating a reply in his head to explain all this while Cas goes ahead and answers. “We met a couple of weeks ago, and became friends through a shared interest.”

“Knitting?” Jo asks, giving Dean a skeptical once over.

Cas shakes his head. “No, ASMR.”

“What the fuck is ASMR?”

Dean’s literally across the room now, hearing this. He’s not involved this is not his conversation. Gladys enters

“Lovely,” she’s saying, just as Cas turns to Jo and answers; “Auto Sensory Miderian Response. It’s a physiological response to sensation as well as an online community—”

“Cas.” Dean warns. Several residents, talking amongst themselves while they set up, look on over, Dean’s using his Nurse-y voice. Jo’s eyebrows jerk up, Cas is just looking at him.

He’s the one spouting shit.

“Changed my mind.” Jo says, holding both hands out. “I don’t wanna know.”

“Jo,” Dean tries, knowing her well enough and long enough to know already what she’s thinking. “It’s not anything—”

“What? Kinky?” Jo says, way too loudly for a place of work. She purses her lips. “Sounds like.”

Cas, of course pipes up. “Though there can be something of a sexual component, for the most part it is more—”

Dean’s face is tomato red, Jo’s mouth’s a soft ‘O’ and Pamela’s wheeling in Mildred with Henry and Missouri shuffling behind her when she walks in _right at that moment_ and Mildred says loudly; “I thought we were here to knit,” she eyes the three of them like puppies who’ve peed on her carpet. “Not to talk, _sexual_ _proclivities_.”

Dean burns. “It’s not sexual.”

Jo snorts and Cas, who apparently is a smooth motherfucker when he wants to, says, just loud enough for Dean, and perhaps Jo to hear; “It can be.”

Dean can feel not only Pamela but _most_ of the seniors surrounding them giving him deadly looks. Pamela’s the one that matters most though, so Dean claps his hands together loudly, officially ending that mess and jumps right on into it. He shuffles on over to Edna, one of their older seniors, she’s rocking out in her wheelchair a little off ways to the corner of the room. “Here, Edna, now do you want to sit up the front?”

“I just need to set up a little.” Cas is saying as the nurses sort out the residents, shifting them all around into something of a semi-circle around the visiting teacher, who gestures back to the table. “I’ve printed out some guides.”

Jo picks one up, and Dean peeks at it as he heads past. “Nice font.”

The font’s Arial. It’s like size eighty-two.

“I thought it might be easier for the, uhm, students to read.” Cas offers gently. He looks a little nervous about the choice, eyes downcast so his lashes cross of his cheeks.

Dean pities the guy.

He comes forward and slap’s Cas on the back. The guy’s firm under his sweater, Dean files that away for later. “Good idea Cas, seriously. Not every shmuck we get in here is that considerate.”

Dean knows he’s done the right thing, when Cas breaks out into a smile.  “Alright,” Dean says to him, but addresses the group assembled as well; they’re doing this thing and they’re doing it now. ‘Put me to work. Let’s get this show set up and on the road.”

 

 

________

 

 

Cas is the kind of teacher Dean remembers having in middle school.

He’s slow, really delving into the basics at first by demonstration. He stands in front of them all, knitting a row, then going around their little semi-circle showing up close to each of the residents, what he’s done and showing them each individually as he knits another few stitches.

He then sets everyone else to sorts with their equipment, having brought extra-large, ridiculously large needles, enough for everyone. For the next hour Cas goes around picking up stitches, tying threads, it helps that a lot of the class already _can_ knit, or have had some experience the memory of it surfacing with Cas’ gentle coaxing.

It’s actually really nice to see. Cas working his way around, speaking gently (which does not have a Pavlovian tingle effect on Dean no way, whatsoever, nope) to the residents, smiles go all around, even Mildred’s softening a bit, even going so far as to tell Cas his stitching isn’t completely, utterly awful which gets a chuckle out of Cas and eyes from everyone else.

Jo nudges Dean in the side and raises her eyebrows toward Mildred as Cas moves on, one side of her mouth is turned up in a smile, since Frank’s passing the staff have barely gotten a conversation going with Mildred properly let alone a smile or, hell, some engagement outside trips and meals.

It’s good, and surprising, to see that with a few hours under Cas’ calm direction (not that Mildred _takes_ any direction, she more so offers it) have soften her, brought her back to something recognizably herself. That, more than anything else, has Dean thinking that, yeah, this is gonna work.

Soon, the clicking sound of knitting needles clacking together falls to a halt and their time is up. Most have started some formulation of a project already, working from memory or Cas’ patterns or designs. The rest as still practicing on rows.

It’s funny, Dean notices as he’s helping pack up, Cas is going around to every resident who came, and saying goodbye personally, offering some nugget of advice or encouragement, or a compliment. He does this for each of the residents, shaking hands, gaining hugs even a few kisses on the cheek that, Dean watches amused, have Cas smiling down at the floor and rubbing his neck bashfully.

Cas goes red when he’s bashful. Dean and Jo both snigger together about it, knowing more than anyone that when you work with people above a certain age, you’re gonna get kisses and pinches.

Dean and Jo help those back to their room, or out to the lounge who want to go to their rooms or the lounge, Jo cycles back to start in on the lunch rounds checking in with Donna while Dean doubles back to the main room where Cas is alone now.

Honestly, Cas is a good-looking guy, really fucking attractive if Dean’s being perfectly honest- which, about these sorts of things, he often is. Cas’ got a couple of days of stubble, his eyes kind and serious behind his black rimmed glasses. Dean can tell from how Cas is crouched over, packing up (and form ungodly texts at a not possible time in the morning) that’s he’s got one of those lithe runner’s bodies, six feet, Dean’s kind of height in a guy, and also, Dean notes pointedly and of course hates himself for doing so, Dean’s favourite kind of ass. Edible.

“How did I do?” Cas asks straightening up as Dean comes around to him.

Dean can’t keep from smiling. Pushing out whatever else is there, because underneath it, he thinks, there might really be a friendship here.

“Seriously man. You’re a great teacher,’ he offers a hand to gather up the last of the pattens. “Even taught me a thing or two.”

Cas beams. “You should participate next time,” he says. “I’m sure the cause would appreciate the extra pair of hands.”

Even with Cas’ careful tutelage, Dean’s never picked up knitting needles before, he’s better with electronics than crafts, shit, he doesn’t even know if he has that kinda dexterity. “No, I, um, I’m not, uh, good with my hands.”

Cas, looking him over, is not a subtle thing. The way his eyes pass across Dean’s bumpy stomach, chest, shoulders, down his arms, isn’t subtle. Neither is the way he settles on Dean’s face, the corner of his mouth kicked up.

It’s _not_ subtle. It is hot though. Damn.

“I find that hard to believe, Dean,” Cas intones, bending low to lift up, just a massive stack of books, he juts out his hip, hiking them up. He rolled up the arms of his sweater a while ago, and it is such an ugly thing but the way it forms around his bicep and fills out it not at all ugly.

“Honestly” Cas smiles. “I insist.”

No, not ugly at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are deeply appreciated!! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR I SWEAR I SWEAR THE NEXT CHAPTER SHALL BE THE LAST I SWEAR TO GOD FUCKEN HELL WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME WITH ONE SHOTS????

They decide Cas’ sessions will run once a week, on Tuesday’s, a nice almost-middle hump to get people through and a good time for Cas, as he says, it’s his shop's quietest day.

Even then it isn’t about until two classes in that Dean picks up his own set of needles. He feels a little bit like Raphael with his twin sai, wielding the needles, though when Dean says this to Cas, the other man’s perplexed; “Teenage Mutant Ninja—what?”

“Never mind, Cas.”

“Turtles…you said _turtles_.”

“What, were you under a rock in the nineties?”

Needless to say, when Cas runs a poll in the room about who’s heard of this show he doesn’t believe exists and when, unsurprisingly, none of the kids have heard of it, _Dean’s_ made to look like the crazy one. He suffers from the fact he’s in a room with seventy to ninety year olds, course they won’t know the turtles.

Cas is smugly triumphant and after the session that day, Dean makes a pointed effort to send him everything from photos of the original toys, to the comics, Youtube clips of the old VHS Christmas film, to even screen grabs of Michael Bay’s monstrosity. Even then, Cas’ only reply is — _this is absurd_ — his random bouts of disbelief, frustration and eventual flurries of TMNT facts as he scans the turtles canon, have Dean in stiches most of the time, he can’t wait to break to Cas about Rule 34.

The next week they’re back in the main room Tuesday, Dean didn’t really get further last week on more than a row, so he’s essentially four weeks behind everyone else and starting from nothing. Cas is magnanimous enough to take a seat beside Dean and talk him through it all gently.

When the room’s silent aside from the _click click click_ of needles, Dean turns to Cas.

“So,” he begins. “Knitting?”

Without even looking up from his work, nimble fingers dancing, Cas says, “Yes. That’s what we’re currently doing.”

He’s being a shit he is, smiling down at the baby blue whatever it is, too early to tell, he’s working on.

“I meant, why knitting, like,” They’re in a lull, most of the kids now having picked up the knack. They’re talking amongst themselves or just knitting quietly. Dean lowers his two rows between his thighs. “Why do you knit?”

It’s pretty impressive actually, how Cas can work so fast, so precisely and still sit around and gas-bag with Dean.

“Much the same reason I do most things really.” Cas answers a little primly. “The repetition is soothing, the movement. I get to create with my own hands, it’s all very fulfilling, relaxing.” Cas looks at Dean carefully from the corner of his eye. “We all have to find ways to relax.” 

Dean’s moved past that awkward, blushy phase of his whole ‘hanging out with the dude who just as much as he puts you to sleep, makes you come that much harder’ and he’s sorta floated down into this shyly pleased they’ve got this thing with each other, something just for the two of them (finally somebody _knows_ ) and it’s just nice for Cas to be so open about it.

Dean’s still working on being open himself.

There’s a while where they work in silence, only interrupted when Dean drops a few stitches, okay a lot of stitches, Cas gets this scrunched up look on his face as he reaches over, as though Dean’s personally insulted him, and fixes his line.

“You should check your row for mistakes as you go.” Cas is saying, a pinprick frown between his brows. “It will save you a lot of work down the line.”

“Show me again,” Dean says, leaning close. “I don’t get what, what should I be doing there when I do drop a stich?”

“Every knitter drops stitches.” Cas answers. “You just have to knit back over to the place in your work where you dropped it. Try again.”

“That simple?”

Cas smiles. “That simple.”

 

_______

 

There’s more that Dean does in his job than just organizing knitting circles.

Dean announces himself into the home’s administration office with the kind of clamoring and regularity that only comes with a long held, full time gig. “So, Jo wants Mr Felmer’s files. I got’em but, uh, his palliative care response sheet’s not in em. Asked Andy to dig around in the system and, so far, all we’ve got is his backdated forms, no friggen _clue_ where his recents are.”

Donna doesn’t even look up from the paperwork in front of her as she answers. “Pam’s on rotation this afternoon, can we hold off till then?”

“Well, I mean, we’re going to have to. If she’s the only one who can get into the new system.”

Donna does look up at that. “New system?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Ten months is not that long, it’s less than a year.”

“But an eternity in terms of technology,” she smiles. “You still haven’t worked it out yet have you?”

“Okay, look, you can’t blame me if both Andy and Jo can’t do it eith—”

There’s a knock on the wall outside the door.

A timid voice. “Umm, Dean?”

Donna leans back in her seat to look around him, Dean himself turns to see Amy, a weekend volunteer, a tray in her arms and she’s holding herself, cheeks flushed but the rest of her pretty pale. When she speaks it’s shaky.

“I don’t know what it is, I was going through and handing out the lunch trays but um, it’s Mrs Bailey.”

Dean’s stomach drops. Mildred. He instantly looks Amy over for scraps, bumps or markings.

Donna starts to get up from her desk. “Oh, hon are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Amy presses, smiling shakily in a way she probably thinks is reassuring. She gestures to the whole lot of her. “She missed.”

“She has got an arm on her.” Donna relents, but without her usual lightness.

Dean lowers his voice. “If she did hurt you.”

Amy shakes her head. “No, I’m fine, really, it’s just. She didn’t take her tray and I,” Amy takes a shuddering breath, as though about to cry. “I don’t think she’s feeling very well.”

Amy hasn’t been here long, so Dean can understand the emotion, the shakiness, and to be honest hearing the phrase ‘isn’t feeling well’ in a retirement home always twinges a bit of anxiety in Dean’s chest, but he swallows it down, holds a hand out.

“I’ll take it to her.” Amy bursts with gratitude at the offer, she gives the tray to him. He turns to Donna, with what he hopes is an easy smile on his face. “Can’t be that unwell if she’s still throwing things.”

“It was a _Weekend_ TV magazine.” Amy murmurs. Despite himself Dean smiles.

A magazine’s harder to throw, not very aerodynamic, Dean’s glad for that. Mildred’s been known to throw a bit worse, she must be going easy on the volly, which means she’s still in there. Dean’s to bumpy and lumpy to shift past Amy’s form in the doorway so he has to shoo her out. As she scurries, apologies on his lips, he tells her. “Milly’s pried off one of the tennis balls on her walker once, threw it right at my head, absolute pro. Good right arm.”

“Dean—”

“She’s fine.”

“Dean.” Donna presses, her usual joviality gone. She doesn’t need to say what she’s going to say, Dean knows. When residents tend to get violent, when they start to deteriorate like this, behavioural problems, potential Alzheimer's, a whole laundry list of symptoms of simply ‘aging’, steps, serious ones, need to be taken.

Dean passes Betty standing guard in the hallway outside Mildred’s room. She looks like she needs a cigarette, popping Tic Tacs into her mouth like dentures.

“How is she?” Dean asks.

Betty sighs and really, that’s answer enough.

Rarely, Dean lets his own vulnerabilities show in front of the kids, he does so then, unwittingly staring at Mildred’s open door, a part of him, seriously, not wanting to enter. “Yeah. God, I thought we were improving on this.”

Betty look up at him with blue-bell eyes squinted behind her glasses. “Sweetie, we’re old.” She shakes her head. “Rarely, at this point, do these sorts of things improve.”

Dean knows she’s right. He’s been in this business long enough.

“It’s her first since Frank, it’s—” He could take Milly’s shit and dole it out twice as hard. It was always a bit of a mystery, a bit of a friggen miracle after one of her breaks how, hours later Mildred could be led calmly back into the day room to eat with Frank’s hand in her own, the two of them in their own little world, talking amongst themselves.

Betty looks at him with sad eyes. “Sweetie.” She touches his arm, squeezes it. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“It’s nice outside, go grab some sunshine. Think Missouri’s out there with the chickens.”

Betty nods, her smile small and shuffles off down the hall.

Mildred’s room is stale, dark with the blinds down. It’s the kind of staleness that surrounds old people, that sets in so quickly, just after a few hours, no matter how much earlier that day someone was sent in to clean it. The plants Mildred has, on nearly every surface of the room, all look like they could do with a drink.

Frank’s scarf, now more than half finished, what with Cas’ sessions, is laid out on the old mothy armchair in the corner on the room. Mildred herself is laid out in bed, looking frail.

“Hey beautiful.” Dean hums, heading right for the blinds to let in some light. He does, hating the bruising, grey tinge to Mildred’s skin as he does. He sets her tray on her bedside and waits a moment, before sitting down himself.

Mildred says a series of cuss words and phrases that, unless they heard with their own years, no one would ever believe him, when he said an eighty-year-old woman spat them at him.

“A little bitch I may be.” Dean says to the lump that is his resident. “But you throw something at me right now, I’ll be throwing something back, and I gotta tell ya, I did wrestling in high school.”

Mildred says nothing.

“Don’t know exactly how that’ll be helping me now though.” Dean says, more to himself than anything as he looks around the room for _something._ “But, I mean, it can only help. Thirty four year old me verses eighty year old you, I’m not much but I can do that.”

The lump that is Mildred moves, as though getting comfortable.

Dean putters around the room in silence for a bit, it’s not without purpose. As he picks up unwashed cups, abandoned biscuits and a projectile Weekly TV he’s also, hyper consciously, monitoring Mildred’s breathing, investigating her pill case, seeing what’s she’s taken, taking and missed. He’s checking her fridge and ducking into her ensuite to see if there’s any evidence of _gastrointestinal_ trouble, any discolourations, blood or anything else. Once the coast is all clear, Mildred is just…just in a _mood._ Dean comes back into the bedroom, looking for a place to sit.

He clears a spot for himself in the armchair in the corner, carefully lifting and moving Frank’s scarf, and under the scarf he finds; one of Frank’s own books. Dean picks it up, sits down, and flicks forward to the pressed pages that have been dog-eared. He can see throughout the whole book, little notes scribbled in the margins.

He begins

“I haven’t read to that part yet.” Comes an aged growl from beneath the blankets.

“Sorry, Beautiful.” Dean smiles, the first inklings of relief, of a full breath start up in his chest.  He flicks right to the first stage and begins, voice soft; “ancient astronaut theorists believe…”

 

_______

 

  
Mildred’s absent the next knitting session, it’s an absence that’s noted but also quickly brushed over as Dean comes into the home, on his day off, dressed in what he hopes (but by the straining across his waist and a lack of a belt seriously doubts) are a loose pair of jeans and a polo shirt (no longer fitting into his classic band Tee’s, maybe he should take up Sam’s suggestion and join a gym or something).

Dean walks into the home and tries not to feel self-conscious, it’s the first time for a lot of people here that he hasn’t been in his scrubs or working behind the scenes. But he’d taken this day off months ago for a random reprieve at work but now that Cas comes in Tuesday’s Dean’s not terribly inclined to sit at home, in his underwear, playing Overwatch online and swearing out noobs (who play better than him, damnit).

Missouri’s the first to say anything, already working on her third knitted article. “What are you doing here, Boy?”

“Came here to knit,” Dean says with a smile. “Look,” he lifts the little knitted tote bag he’d carried in. “Got a little bag with my gear and everything.”

Betty speaks up. “Did you knit that sweetie?”

Several resident’s eyes turn to him, impressed. From across the room Pam and Andy both look doubtful.

Dean feels his shoulders slump. “Uh…no.”

From across the room, Pamela sniggers. Missouri shakes her head sadly. Betty just looks confused.

She asks; “what have you been knitting, these past few weeks?”

“Uhh…”

“Everyone knits at their own pace.” Actual Angel, Castiel, to the rescue, Dean thinks, unable to help the smile on his face as Cas enters from where he himself just did. “I’m sure, whatever Dean has been working on will be greatly appreciated by our friends at the shelter.”

There’s a soft touch to Dean’s side. “You’re out of uniform.” Cas says, low for just between the two of them. He rubs Dean’s shirt between two fingers, not an easy feat given how tight it clings to Dean, then lets it go.

“Today’s my off day.” Dean says around a grin.“Why, Cas, I can’t let you get all the style points.”

Cas soothes his own hands down his shirt and waistcoat, actual guy’s wearing a waistcoat, Dean can’t blame some of the resident’s ladies (and some of the men too) from shooting him appreciative looks. With that dress, those glasses and his hair, Cas is a walking wet dream, and that all completely excludes his voice which is like a firm pat down Dean’s back.

Cas, at the news that Dean is here without work making him be so, reddens a little, and smiles down at his feet. As his eyes lower, he spots Dean’s tote.

“Dean, did you knit this?”

He sounds so impressed, so excited, before Dean can answer (no, he was, he swears he was going to answer no) Arthur calls out. “No! He didn’t!” the rest of the residents agree.

It’s Dean’s turn to redden. “I, uh, brought it as inspiration?”

Carefully, Cas lifts the tote from Dean’s arm. He smoothes his thumbs over it. “We could make this, several of these.”

Dean flicks a look over his shoulder to Arthur, Betty, Missouri and sticks out his tongue.

“Put that tongue back in your mouth boy or you’ll find it sewn to your bottom lip!”

Dean sucks it back in.  
  
Cas, Pamela and Andy, all watching, laugh.

 

_______

  

In one session, Cas casually asks “So what’s your favourite trigger?” quietly between the two of them. They sit close, Dean’s thigh feels warm.  
  
Unthinking, well, while thinking about knitting, Dean answers; “You.”

There’s a moment of silence after that.

Cas lets out a little breathy, “oh.” And smiles down at his work. 

“I—I mean—”

“It’s alright Dean.” Cas says, smiling. “I’m flattered.”

And hey, flattered’s a pretty great thing to be in Dean’s book. He lets it be.

 

_______

 

  
Dean isn’t the one who finds Mildred on Tuesday morning but he is the one who rides with her in the ambulance they rang up, and debriefs the attendants, every moment passing like a detached blur in his head. He’s not conscious, he’s unfeeling, he’s polite, direct, and when Mildred actually tries to apologize (she should wait to be helped into the shower, she knows she needs help) Dean tells her to stop and takes up her, what he hopes is, unbroken hand and holds it in his own. 

“You’re alright.” He says again. And again. “You’re alright, we just make a big fuss about these things because you’re so important.”

Shock’s taken Mildred out of it, she nods, doesn’t smile, she’s not really there, she’s shaking.

“You’re alright.”

It’s later, at the hospital, waiting in his scrubs (which get him a few looks) that Dean repeats to himself why they treat something like a fall like a slip as serious as they do at Cherry parks.

It’s because Mildred’s old, he tells himself, every slip, bump, hit, slight sniffle has to be treated quick with the upmost care and taken deathly seriously, cause it could be deadly.

It’s because, they’d been giving her some space, and because they’d been giving her some space it took half and hour before anyone found her lying in the floor of her bathroom, shivering, cold, out of it, bleeding.

It’s because Andy didn’t really know what to do, he called nine-one-one first, then ran for Dean and Jo.

It’s because Mildred’s showing signs of alzheimer's, and this might be the thing that finally tips her over.

It’s because they care. Milly hasn’t got anyone else, no family, they’re her family and they care.

After seeing Milly, awake, out of it a little, seeming very little in the big white hospital bed, Dean heads back to the home in a taxi his hands shaking. He still has seven hours of his shift left.

Pamela sends him home, she’s already sent Andy home, he’s alright, she says, shaken like you. She’s called Donna, and Amy in.

Dean doesn’t disagree, Milly looked so little.

It’s not until Dean’s gone home, showered, dressed and is heading back to the hospital that he remember’s Cas session with them that afternoon. He sits in the waiting area and types out on his phone, shitty hospital coffee held precariously between his thighs.

 

— _Don’t come to the home today, there was an accident, not a good time_ —

 

The text he gets in reply comes quickly.

 

— _Pamela just contacted me. An accident? Dean, are you okay_?—

 

— _Fine, wasn’t me, was Milly_ —

 

dot…dot…dot… typing a lot of typing. It stops then starts again, what Dean gets in reply is. — _Oh god_ —

 

Yeah. Dean tries to sit back comfortably in the shitty too small chair that’s jabbing into his sides, god he should just sit on the floor, but then, if he was a nurse here, he’d have something to say about that. 

Dean sets his phone aside and cups his coffee in both hands, he only stops to take a literal burning breath when his phone _blurps_ again.

 

It’s Cas. — _Where are you?_ —

 

Dean takes another fortifying gulp, huh, the cups empty he will need to grab another. He replies simply; — _Hospital—_

_—Which?—_

Dean gives him the name after a quick look around.

_—Be there in fifteen—_

Dean finds himself frowning. _—You don’t have to—_

_—I want to—_

Who’s Dean to judge others for what they want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **As always Unbeated, Unedited, Unread**
> 
> I hope you all enjoy, this is indeed the last chapter. This has been a really fun, fluffy ride!
> 
> if you enjoyed this then I certainly recommend reading some of my other work <3 I appreciate all your kudos/comments and love, thanks everyone.
> 
> Working on more destiel fanfic this year so subscribe!! n_n

Dean’s not sure how much time passes, he guesses it must be at least fifteen minutes as Cas is here and he’s holding a couple sunflowers, who’s stems drip and swing by his thighs. The flowers themselves are drooping a bit, they look like the kind one gets for a discount at the end of the day. Dean glances at the ticking clock on the wall, oh wow, yeah, it is the end of the day god.

Dean’s in the only, again, shitty diggy-in seat, Cas drops down in front of him, looking frazzled and breathing hard. His face is flushed with colour, he touches Dean gently, withdraws quickly.

“Dean,” a soft low rumble. Dean’s eyes fall closed unwittingly, body slouching. “Dean, are you alright?”

“I’m alright. Not the one in hospital” Dean says. At Cas’ glance around the place and his subsequent arched eyebrow Dean amends. “I’m not the one _hurt._ Anyway, you didn’t have to come.”

“I know.” Cas says, getting up he winces a bit, pats at his back, but pretends he didn’t when he catches Dean watching him. With a somewhat forced, gummy smile he presses up against the wall, leaning back on it, one foot propped.

Dean gets out of his seat. “Here.” He says.

Cas shakes his head. “No.”

“S’okay.” Dean insists. “I need to stretch.” He starts doing just that, though in the way that only requires him to jiggle his legs a little, pace a bit.

Cas slides into the seat with what can only be considered relief, though he does watch Dean, eyes moving back and forth with each of Dean’s short laps. “Is it expected than an attending care nurse be present at the hospital, on their off time, for a resident?”

Dean grunts, bristling a little. This isn’t about his _job_ he cares about his kids, about all of them, after Frank.

After Frank, and a dozen more names and lives, and people Dean’s lost over the years from this gig, god, he’s sick of losing people. But he’s in the business of losing people, of at least making their lives less painful, more comfortable while he loses them. It’s not just him it’s Jo, it’s Donna, it’s Pam and Andy, it’s the kid’s families, not all of the are like Mildred, they have others outside the home, people who care about them.

So yeah, it’s not expected of an aged care nurse, but it’s expected of a friend. And that’s what Dean is, how he cares, he’s Mildred’s friend.

And he’s gonna be out here, waiting for her.

“I see.” Cas says, there’s silence for a time. The clock ticks. Blood returns to Dean’s limbs. He needs to sit again. But Cas looks comfy as he is, so Dean settles for taking up his previous position against the wall, he doesn’t look nearly as casual and disheveled as Cas did, he makes it look like the wall’s a load bearing weight, holding Dean up when he own legs can’t.

“You brought flowers.” Dean says, just to break the silence.

“Everyone likes flowers.” Cas replies, then looks down at his sorry bunch. “They’re the best I could do on the run.” He admits.

“On a budget.” Dean jokes but it falls flat.

A flush arcs up Cas’ neck, and he looks away, fingers curling hard into his lap. “Well, uh, yes.”

“Dude,” Dean pinches his brows, frustrated with himself, trying to feel out the growing pain there. “That was a dick move.”

Cas frowns, which, honestly, seems just to be default setting for his face half the time, not aggressive or disappointed, just thinking. “It was a joke.”

“A shitty one.”

“Well, yes,” Cas relents with something that’s a bit like a smile. He clears his throat, flexes his fingers on his thighs. “Usually your humour is quite good.”

“I’m off my game, I’m,” Dean’s shrugs, sliding down the wall beside Cas’ seat; he pretty much slumps into a heap on the floor. Admits quietly, “Y’know, wired.”

“I can see that.” Cas says gently and then he reaches over and cards his fingers through Dean’s hair. Sliding back, pushing forward, a small little tug and then his hand sinks lower to the back od Dean’s neck, igniting a whole body reaction, a shiver, a sound to croak in the back of Dean’s throat.

Almost as soon as Cas has given a couple of squeezes, fingers teasing at the nape of Dean’s neck (hard with his shoulder so hunched up like they are) he withdraws. Voice hoarse, as though it’s the first time he’s spoken all day. “I’m sorry. Is this—”

Dean’s a little at lost for words, his body still thrumming pleasantly where he was being touched. “Umm.”

Cas takes that as a no. Not okay. He looks abashed. Shifts awkwardly in his seat. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it was nice.” Dean insists, a desperate kind of sincerity leaking through. God, how long has it been since he’s been touched like that by another person? Friends don’t touch like this outside of hugs, outside of his mum. Dean finds himself wanting, but unable to actually ask for the touch to return.  He doesn’t know what lines he has with Cas, if they have any at all or if they _should._

He scoots across the lino floor (disgusting, he knows from experience, but blocks that niggling voice out) leans against the side of Cas’ chair, and when that gets no prompting he bumps it a little, wordlessly, and inclines his head forward, the nape of his neck and shoulders, more relaxed now, exposed.

Cas’ fingers find the tight knot in his neck almost instantly and circle down on it.

It’s enough to make Dean all floppy, and drop his head forward more. “ _Fuck_.”

“Okay?” He hears Cas ask faintly.

Dean nods, moan-groans—though he’ll insist it is an agreeing hum— and manages a; “Thanks.”

The tension bleeds out of him from under Cas’ expert fingers, god, so _this_ is what Cas’ ASMR feels like right from the source. Like some friggen ancient godly liquid running through his spine, up his neck. Golden and flush and seeping into Dean through crevices and cracks he didn’t even realised ached.

They stay like that for a long time, Cas touching, firmly, softly, alternating and Dean being touched. A passive recipient.

He’s so far out of it, so far under Cas’ touch that he doesn’t even realise a nurse is approaching them until Cas draws away and two old sneaks pop into Dean’s eye-line.

A young nurse stands in front of him. They look between Dean and Cas, but address Dean, probably because he looks more haggard. “Your grandmother?”

They’re talking about Mildred. This must be her attendant. Dean gets up, every part of his quaking and creaking. “Ah, uh, no, no, she’s my resident. Patient, I work at Cherry Park?”

The nurses raises one, previously pierced, eyebrow.

“She’s also our friend.” Cas responds, an authoritative tone to his voice, he stands too. The shortest of the three of them really, but he still manages to take up the most space (and with Dean around, that’s saying something). “She doesn’t have anyone else.”

“Alright.” The nurse allows slowly, the moment of tension passes and they shake into professional mode. Dean stands a little straighter, automatically responding to the in control, medical tone. It’s just ingrained in him to.

Cas, as it is, hangs back.

“Good news, the fall could have been worse. A lot worse. I’m sure you know more than most that incidents like this, falls with the elderly can have serious and potentially deadly consequences. There’s the potential for intracranial injuries,”

Dean breathes in.

“Which did not occur in this case,” the nurse assures, noting his reaction. “Mrs. Harlan’s incurred fractures to her right femur and forearm. But these are treatable, from my understanding it took some time for attendants to find her?”

Dean’s throat and eyes burn. “Yes.” Half an hour to twenty minutes is a long time when you’re working with vulnerable people.

“That has caused some potentially significant trauma.” The nurse notes.

Dean nods. He expected this. Milly’s pale face.

Sometimes accidents just happen.

“This can cause a significant risk for post fall morbidity and recuperation.” The nurse goes on.  “Treatment and management will be improved, given she is already in assisted living. We will need to take a look at her recovery plan, at the very least in the two weeks we’ll have her, we’ll need to consider long-term treatment,” the nurse eyes Dean again, but adds slowly. “Perhaps, at some other time, in a more formal capacity. At the moment she is stable, awake, though under treatment and might not be entirely responsive.”

“We can see her?” Cas asks.

God, Cas’ voice has never been such a relief before.

“Yes.” The nurse answers and that’s all Dean needs. He heads into the room, Cas in toe and—

Milly looks so tiny in the bed. Pale, loosened. With drips and bits sticking out of her. The sight actually fortifies Dean a little, he’s seen this before, he’s dealt with this before.

He can handle this.

Cas touches his wrist with two fingers. “Dean?”

“Hm, yeah?”

“Did you want to sit down?”

“I’m good thanks Cas. You sit—”

“Sit down. For fucks…” Milly takes a breath, the words leaving her lips on an airy puff. Her head flops to the side, eyes rolling up, unfocused. She blinks, lucid again and they landing on Dean. “Both you.”

Cas drops down into the seat by the bed.

Dean, more gently and really not sitting at all more so squatting in a way that makes his thighs and back _burn_ takes to the very edge, the very corner of Milly’s bed.

“You’re here.”

“Yes.” Cas says unsure. He looks to Dean for help. “I…can leave? If you’d rather.”

Milly grunts softly, says nothing. Neither a yes or a no, Cas looks to Dean lost who, doesn’t really know what to give in reply, lost as well. Cas seems as though he’s going to stay, the silence’s oppressive, but he gets up. 

“I will search for some water,” he holds out the sunflowers in his hand. “For, uh, these. For you Mildred.”

It takes a lot for effort for Milly to turn her head to him. “Flowers.” She says, after several silent minutes.

Cas nods. “Yes.”  
  
Milly hums.

Cas waits a moment, but when nothing comes, he shifts his feet, holds the flowers down by his side. “I’ll just uh,”

“Yes.” Milly says, but it’s so faint and so, _out of it_ that Dean wonders for a moment if she’s even talking to him. “You will.”

Cas nods, setting the flowers on the chair he heads out of the room, brushing past Dean’s side of the table, he pauses and bends low.

“I’ll be back.” He whispers to Dean, and fuck it’s inappropriate right now, and lessened by Dean’s grief but fuck, Cas whispering in his ear will never _not_ have an effect on him.

Cas leaves the room, and a little warmth, Dean hates to admit, goes with him.

When Cas is gone, Milly turns to Dean. “Took your time.” She says, either having no idea or not caring how her words burn.

Dean blinks heavily. Chest trampled tight, voice coming out weak, even to his own ears. “I’m sorry.”

Milly sighs.

The silence, saying nothing, speaks volumes.

“What—” Dean starts, but he remembers the shock, he remembers seeing Milly how she was. He doesn’t ask what happened.

Milly must sense the moment of hesitation. She turns her cheek away, the silence settles and Dean shifts his feet, throws one leg up over the other. “Jesus.”

That stirs something up out of Milly. Faster than Dean expected, Milly turns her head. “Don’t go bringing him—”

“You a god-fearing woman now Milly?”

Milly’s mouth forms into a wrinkled prune. “Nothing of the sort?”

“Frank wasn’t into the whole Big man in the sky watching us?” Dean asks.

Milly’s eyes shutter and he regrets it almost instantly, before he can say anything Milly answers.

“Some force in the sky, unseeing, all powerful, watching us.” Milly huffs. “Sounds like Frank.”

“Would probably think it was aliens.”

“The government.” Milly corrects.

“Yeah, or that. Both. Maybe Jesus shot Lincoln.”

“Sunflowers were his favourite.”

Dean pauses a moment, looks at Milly, the topic’s moved on now, like water through a sieve. She’s looking at Cas’ flowers.

“Frank's?” he asks. Milly says nothing.

“That’s a lie.” Dean goes on gently. There’s no give on Milly’s face, just a blank acceptance, so he asks her; “are they… _your_ favourite?”  
  
Milly just huffs and rolls her cheek away. “Liked em enough to buy for me.”

“Or maybe he just knew _you_ liked them?”

She’s hiding her face from him now. Or trying to. There’s the tiniest bit of colour to her cheeks when she mumbles something incomprehensible.

Unthinking, Dean smiles and reaches out and rests his hand beside her. She huffs at him, but doesn’t move way.

“Oh, shut up.” She says.

Yet there’s genuine, but tired smiles on both her face and Dean’s by the time Cas returns with a vase.

 

_______

 

Cas— _How is Mildred?_

Dean— _Better, she’ll be home after her two weeks, in a wheelchair (which she’s not happy about) but better_

Dean— _Thanks for asking_

Cas— _Of course Dean_

Cas— _:)_

Dean— _Dork_

Dean— _:p_

**_______**

 

Cas— _I think we have a significant enough quantity of knitted wear for the shelter._

Dean— _Well, you can never have too much stuff right?_

Cas— _I believe so_

Cas— _And the shelter deserves and needs everything we can give them, but for now there is quite a lot_

Dean— _Been talking with Pam about making these classes a seasonal thing?_

Dean— _Cas?_

_______

 

Cas— _I’m not sure I can take that regular a time off work._

Cas— _Dean?_

Dean— _Sorry, work brb_

 

_**_______** _

 

Dean— _nah I get it man, sides, I think the kids can teach you a thing or too now, they know so well._

Cas— _the pupils have surpassed the teacher_

Dean— _Cas-Fucious says._

**_______**

 

Cas— _I would like to help with the distribution if I may?_

Dean— _No doubt about it Cas, kids wouldn’t want to do it without you_

Cas— _What about you?_

Dean— _???_

Cas— _Would you want to ‘do it’ without me_

Dean— _Get back to work_

 

**_______**

 

Getting the participating kids in a van from point A to point B (a different van now, so Milly can be wheeled on and off) is a job in and of itself. Not all of the residents who came to Cas classes are coming to distribute the goods now, honestly, they hadn’t really planned on making a trip out of it until Mildred had got back, and had asked if she would still be able to drop off the knitted wear while in a wheelchair.

Which, of course, led others, Missouri, Betty, Gladys, Edward, Alfred and Bernie to come along.

The homeless shelter, or one of them at least in the city, the one they’re donating to, isn’t terribly far from Cherry Parks, but they are in two very different neighbourhoods, a physical representation of how the two groups of people under their care, are regarded by the government, by the populous. Though they’re not nearly as dissimilar, in vulnerability in disenfranchisement as most assume. Both gradients of life experience.

The more they travel inner city the more the colour’s drained from everything around them, streets and buildings grey, the sparse few trees leaves are fainting, sitting in the front seat with Jo driving (she flipped heads) Dean has to think that, actually, they timed this out pretty good, the cool just starting to creep in now, the slightest crispy breaths of chill in the morning and through the night, he hopes that the groups knitting will help.

Some of that greyness fades a little as Jo pulls them up in front of the shelter. It’s a methodic, ten step process to get everybody out of the van, loaded with knitted gear and then organised. It really is like organising school kids, he even jokes with Jo about singing off numbers.

Cas rolls up in his own car, having to park a few streets away. His arms bulge with how he is holding two, large cardboard boxes neither Jo nor Dean can leave the kids. But Cas seems fine with that, he heads toward them, smiles, then keeps on going, taking the boxes past the entrance to the shelter, down the street a little and, what, around the corner.

Dean’s a little bit distracted by the way Cas’ casual washed jeans hug his ass to really pay attention to where he’s going. It’s just…damn, nice and Dean’s not the only one looking.

Missouri and Betty share conspiratorial glances smirking between each other. “That’s nice” says Gladys dreamily, Edward squeezes her hand. Dean himself has to have a moment’s look, because, well _how can he not_.

He hears Edward say; “Nurse Winchester _is_ a homosexual.”

“Winchester.” Milly snaps. Dean comes back, and looks down, his hands on the back of her chair, everyone’s moving themselves and the knitting inside.

Dean feels his face flush, he turns his back on Cas’ retreating form and marches Milly forward. “Zip it Harlan.”

Milly inclines her head and says nothing. Though Dean wants to turn back and find Cas, he has a job to do, he follows Jo and the gang.

Inside the shelter, there’s a stern attendant at the front desk the rest of the shelter is closed off but there is a line of older wall phones all already in use, though a few people at the helm turn around when the see the procession of seven over sixty year olds and two uniformly dressed attendants.

They probably look a little out of place in their cardigans (Dean’s Is grey and comfortable, shut it) most with boxes and bags and handfuls of wool.

Through the doors off to the side, Dean supposed, were the accommodations, he didn’t have much experience with how the cities shelters ran but he did know that residents have to clear out and move back in every night, and that any long-term accommodations had a waiting list about a mile long.

The homeless situation since the Salvation Army had to close a few shelters in the area had become ridiculous.

“Jo Harvelle?” asks the stern person behind the front desk, right as Jo comes up to her, Dean following not too far behind. Jo, professional that she is, dumps the box she’s carrying on the attendant’s desk, gets up on her toes to lean across the top of it and offer her hand.

“Yes, Hi, Hannah? We spoke on the phone.”

“We did. Yes,” Hannah eyes the boxes and bags they’re all carrying in, and though there’s no smile, there is certainly some form of softness, of appreciation that takes over their features. “You’ve all certainly been knitting hard.”

“Knitting all season!” Edward insists gruffly, Missouri, and Betty nod. Bernie adds, “we can knit more?”

“And we appreciate it greatly.” Hannah tells them. “There are rarely enough blankets and spare clothing to go around, even with donations, particular for vulnerable residents. Those pregnant, small children, oh—” Dean reaches into his box, because he had a look what was in there before, knitted boots, socks, tiny clothes and cardigans.

Missouri puts her hands on Glady’s while Edward stands protectively beside her. “We’ve knitted a lot.” She explains, Dean remembers her knitting the most of the baby wear. “And we can always knit more.”

Hannah actually does smile this time, the corner of their mouth giving the lightest kick. Their eyes large and soulful. “Perfect.”

They come out from around the desk, a little shorter than Dean first expected, all prim and proper with their light shirt matching well their dark skin and hair. Their eyes are proper cow-eyes, but have really lit up.

“I’ll help you take everything through. Most residents don’t come through till the evenings, but we have some people on hand, and some residents around if you wanted to take these out back.”

Jo picks up the slack. “Course. Are you sure it’s okay to come through.”

“I’ll only take you through to the main room. Everyone deserves their privacy. But I do know a couple of residents who would love to talk and thank you all.”

The kids seem particularly chuffed at that. Even Milly jostles in her seat a bit when the other kids start moving out, those who can carry knitting carry it out. Dean leaves his boxes by the desk while he wheels Milly through.

The main room is something of a sparse lounge, and there are a few people, more people than Dean would expect, sitting around, talking, being.

It’s only when Dean’s settled the kids in with boxes of knitted wear and shaken a few hands of a few people who come up to them, curious and thankful and emotional that Dean breaks away for a moment, Jo and Hannah are fine, most of the kids are sitting out not, unfolding knitting wear and talking. Dean slips back outside and down the way he saw Cas break off with his boxes. He rounds the corner, and it isn’t until an almost empty lot a few hundred meters down from the shelter that he sees Cas on the curb of the road and his boxes a few meters ahead of him, sitting open in the lot.

Dean jogs across the road, already breathing heavy when he gets to Cas’ side, he’s caught for a moment looking at the lot behind Cas. Thinking it empty before, no that wasn’t right, it’s a lived-in space, people are living here. There’s sleeping bags and rolled out mattresses, boxes and clothes lines and blankets. Toiletries in plastic bags, plastic bags in plastic bags, there’s tin cups and a cooking grate it’s almost like a run-down camping around. There’s kids.

Most of the people here, eyeing him warily, are younger than Dean.

Unsure of himself, aware he’s being watched, Dean sits down next to Cas, getting down slowly and says; “Hey.”

“Hello Dean.” Cas murmurs. Dean notices then he’s knitting, a ball of wool resting between and a top of his feet, like a penguin egg. Dean’s not sure what he’s making.

They sit for a moment. Eventually Dean asks; “Why are they—” he starts but doesn’t finish, Cas finishes for him. Setting his knitting on his lap.

“Outside rather than in?”

Dean nods.

“For some they simply don’t want to, for others they have too much stuff to move in and out every day after every night. Most though there’s simply ot enough room within the shelter, but close and outside still offers some measure of protection and resource. There’s food inside, phones, it’s only beds that are limited so.”

Lack of space, lack of resources, government support, lack of funding. Dean’s heard it all before, said it all before. Though the results of that in the retirement world are usually less stark.

“You don’t want to give the stuff out?” Dean asks.

 “It’s better if we don’t intrude.” Cas lip quirks a little. “Let the “kids” inside have their fun, not everyone wants to feel beholden to or like charity. This way offers an alternative.”

“Huh?” 

“It is lovely what you have all done. What you’re doing.” Cas starts off. “And the kindness and sentiment cannot be denied, but for some, being homeless, being in a situation that is so politicised and vilified and dehumanised, you see, you came here to do the right thing, and doing the right thing makes you feel good about yourself.” Cas says. “But it can also make others feel bad about themselves. Some if they want help, they will ask, they don’t want charity or pity. The act of _giving_ kindness, like a bestowment, that isn’t the nicest power dynamic in the world.”

  
“Some people just stay near, like I said, for the bathrooms, the meals, the phone. The no camping ordinance on the city doesn’t give them a whole lot of options. But they didn’t come here to be a spectacle, to be someone else’s good deed.”

Dean doesn’t get it, gets it—no one likes to be pitied—but doesn’t _get it._ Cas’ narrow-eyed kind of defiance, kind of insight, makes Dean step carefully when he asks; “How long?”

Cas turns to him. “Mmm?”

“How long were you homeless for?”

Cas’ eyes shutter for a moment. As if he wasn’t quite expecting the question. He makes a gesture like a shrug but isn’t a shrug, Cas isn’t quite so clavier.

“Two years in my early adulthood, and apparently a few more before I was five. I don’t, remember everything. From, admittedly, either time. There was,” he pauses, digesting the words. “A lot going on.”

Dean wants to know the how’s and why’s but now is not the moment for them.

“I don’t tell just anyone, the parts about my past that are uncomfortable or painful for me, Dean.” Cas says, suddenly grave. He turns to Dean fully, so that they are so close, they’re knees knock together.

This is it.

Dean may not feel romantic attraction, but he knows when someone’s feeling attracted to him, in whatever way, and he’s been vibing on Cas in his own way pretty hard, how could he not, Cas isn’t only a hot guy but a great guy, smart and kind and funny, he is a good friend, could grow, Dean feels, to be his best friend.

That’s what Dean wants. If sex or whatever Cas’ feeling about him could jeopardise that, then Dean doesn’t want a bar of it, he’d rather have Cas as a friend than risk something platonically sexual only to not be able to give Cas what he wants in the way he wants and ending this entirely.

Dean’s only been in this situation once or twice and it’s never really turned out well.

“Cas—”

But Cas, sensing an opening, speeds on. “I would like to explore this. Us, Dean. I’ve come to feel very found of you. I would like to get to know you further, outside of this, outside of videos of myself whispering on the internet.” He smiles so sweetly.

“Cas, I’m aromantic. Do you know what that is?”

By the complicated expression on Cas’ face, Dean is going to go with yes. Cas does get it. Dean goes to move away but Cas’ hand latches out onto him.

“No, I,” Cas jolts back, hand moving off of Dean as though he’s burnt him. “I’m sorry. That was unwelcome and inappropriate—”

“You can touch me Cas.” Dean scolds gently, the sting of rejection, an already familiar burn. “I’m not friggen contagious.”

Cas looks so aghast Dean almost feels sorry for him. “No, Dean that’s not what I—I’m the one here making _you_ uncomfortable!”

“ _Me_ uncomfortable?” Dean laughs, kind of brokenly. “Cas, you having a crush on me doesn’t make me uncomfortable. I’m not disgusted by romance, I just ain’t the type to feel it.”

Cas blushes. Takes a moment. “Uh, quite a bit more than a crush I’m afraid.”

Dean flushes as well, it’s one thing to think it but another to have Cas confirm it. He’s a bit flattered.

“I like you Cas,” Dean says honestly. “I do, and I’m, y’know, you’re hot, you’re a good-looking guy.” Cas shifts a little so that their thighs line up together. Dean blinks, suddenly emboldened. “You’re a great person, you’re a good friend. You’re dorky.” Dean smiles at seeing Cas smiling shyly down at his own lap. He leans across the gap between them and nudges Cas’ side. “Good with your hands.”

“Shut up.”

“I like spending time with you man, and hell, if you want to spend more of it with some guy like me...”

“I would.” Cas enthuses. “I know what aromanticism means, and you say you're not entirely averse to my, my attraction to you. But, what do you want Dean? I’m afraid this is all new territory for me.”

What does Dean want?

He admits he’s been lonely, he’s tired. He’s tired of the anxiety that can twist in his stomach so hard he can’t seem to move the rest of his body. He’s tired of constantly being on edge, having to wind himself down, he’s tired of feeling stuck and wanting to do something about himself but taking the easy way out.

Being too paralysed to try something new, not even really knowing what that is yet, or if he wants to try that or how it will work out.

He does know that Cas makes him feel better. Taught him that it’s okay to seek out small spaces for himself in the everyday to get out from the crowd, no matter if it’s one or twenty other people, just to be by himself and look after himself.

And y’know, someone who helps him with that, who he has fun with and genuinely likes, is someone Dean thinks he might like to take a chance on.

Cas is warm by his side.

“A, uh, friend y’know, someone who can come over, that I can just chill out with, someone who doesn’t mind lying in bed watching shitty TV or— ”

“Sex?” Cas asks.

Dean blinks. “Huh?”

“Just wondering if this relationship would include a sexual dimension. If perhaps you were asexual or somewhere on the spectrum of asexuality.”

“No, uh, not asexual or demi. And uh, sex? With you?” Dean shrugs trying to brush off his own words, god why is he saying them. “Ideally, yeah.”

Cas’ smile turns, for lack of a better term wolfish. He hums with faux disinterest. “I see.”

Dean feels warm all over. God he should have worn a looser shirt.

And baggier pants.

“So,” Cas leads off. “If you had all that, would it, upset you, if your friend, while being platonic and monogamously sexual with you, harboured less than platonic feelings for you?”

Dean feels like covering his face he’s so exposed out here, he feels like a kid but shit he’s an adult, this is serious, this could be something serious.

“I’m not usually the one, in those kind of situations, that has hang ups about all that. Just because I don’t feel feelings romantic styles, doesn’t mean I want them not to exist for others, for other people.”

While Dean stumbles his way through that embarrassment Cas asks plainly; "Are you, put off, if my feeling towards you are less than platonic?"

"Haven’t really, thought about it honestly. More than platonic, isn’t really something that’s on my radar. But," Dean reaches over and taps Cas’ hand, until he turns it over, offering it to him. It’s nice holding hands right? Romantic? Dean extends the gesture as a kind of olive branch, he’ll never be the one to say no to getting to touch Cas.  "I think I’d be pretty fucken lucky guy, to catch the attention of someone like you."

Cas’ smile is all pink gums and crinkled eyes, his nose all wrinkled and drawn up.

"You are, we are, pretty fucken lucky then."

Kind of unsure, Dean taps out a rhythm on Cas’ hand, it’s weird holding another hand, strangely intimate, yeah, Dean feels his arm jerking a little, looks up at Cas who’s looking up at him. Cas lets him do with a smile and freed, Dean wedges his hand between his thighs.

"You are, we are, pretty fucken lucky then." Cas says beaming.

Deans own lips kick up in return. "Ha, yeah."

Out of the corner of his eye, as they get up to leave, Dean sees a handful of kids run for the boxes and start going through them.

Before they turn the corner completely out of view of the lot, Dean hears a yelled out. “Thanks!”

Cas smiles to himself, all private and small. Dean on the other hands whips around and yells back. “You’re welcome!”

A couple of kids stall a moment, a couple of them laugh. Some are already wearing some gear, or have wool piled up in their arms. Dean offers a wave, then takes Cas’ wrist and leads him around the corner.

Cas nudges his side. Dean nudges back. They walk into the shelter together, and it’s not until after they’ve packed up, shipped out and all the kids are back at Cherry parks, that Cas pulls Dean aside and asks when he’s done for the day, to which Dean answers around four. Only a few more hours now, he hasn’t got any other plans for the day.

“Great.” Cas says, with a soft touch to Dean’s side. A touch that lingers. A touch that lights Dean up in the inside, cos damn. “You pick a movie, I’ll bring the beer.”

The look accompanying all that is heated.

Dean has a feeling he’s going to fall right asleep tonight, no ASMR needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoy, this is indeed the last chapter. This has been a really fun, fluffy ride!
> 
> if you enjoyed this then I certainly recommend reading some of my other work <3 I appreciate all your kudos/comments and love, thanks everyone.
> 
> Working on more destiel fanfic this year so subscribe!! n_n

**Author's Note:**

> **As always Unbeated, Unedited, Unread**
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